The bears
Were at the tequila,
Of all things.
Trampling glass shards
To get to that clarified
Blue agave.Black bears, mind you.
Thick, full
North American forest.
A squeeze-bottle
Full of honey on the counter.But they had gotten an insatiable taste for
Something they’d never known–
Something juiced from a succulent turquoise heart.
Call it virility.
Call it exoticism.
The bears leveled half a cabin
To get to the Patrón.Delirious, passed out on their backs
In the prickly gorge made by
Splintered sofa and futon,
On the banks of a stream flowing
From the overturned icebox.
Their nocturnal erections dangerously close
To the antique accent tables.
I couldn’t help but think,
Fuck these bears.
These bears
Were drunk,
Without inhibitions
To lose.
No social mores to set aside
So they could finally fuck each other
And not feel bad for a while.
Nothing social
Nothing torturous
About fucking for them–a thoroughly dirty,
Painful,
Life-affirming romp.
I’m the motherfucking Goldilocks in this house.
I deserve to be romanced.