How Like a God
Making tiny work
of what I could not budge,
the bear lifted my left-out cooler—so heavy
it would have taken two people
to stagger it to safety—
and slammed it down, snapping its hinges.
I lay in my flimsy shelter as he tore into
what he wanted, smacked his lips,
snuffled loudly for blueberries.
Such fondness for small pleasures
within that shouldered broadness.
What he liked, he licked carefully the last of
then left my ice chest strewn,
jagged valleys notched in its surface,
useless latch like a mouth, hung open.
Two days later, you were hospitalized.
My pain was tented, silent. Night after night,
it lay inside the pitch black of me, listening
while your illness rummaged
inside you, digging, clawing,
sniffing for the sweetest parts.
“How Like a God” first appeared in B O D Y.