after Audre Lorde
I.
Two bears and an owl walk into a bar—
the beginning of a joke, maybe,
or a dream.
II.
Say the bar is not a bar but a hospital. The bears,
—one brown, one white—linger over a carcass
on the operating table. The grizzly claws away
the breasts, the polar bear stitches up the wounds.
III.
The owl puts the carcass on a rotisserie, roasts
it over a fire. The carcass must be cooked
before it is done, low and slow, till the meat
is charred on the outside, pink all the way
through.
IV.
This will take weeks.
V.
Sometimes, the carcass weeps. When the carcass
weeps, the owl spits up a pellet of fur and bones.
Look, clicks the owl. It could be worse.
VI.
It is.
VII.
A year later, in another hospital room, the carcass
waits. Polar bears aren’t much for formalities,
but it’s still a surprise when he whips aside the
curtain, whips aside the gown. He scrawls all over
the no-longer-breasts breasts, gnashing yellow teeth
in black gums. The meat is like rubber, he growls.
There are no leaves on these trees, no blooms on
the flowers, no give in the hide.
VIII.
The bear says: this isn’t reconstruction
but resurrection, grr grr.
IX.
The carcass has forgotten its own language,
speaks in grunts and clicks. It wants to kiss
the lethal beak of the owl, lay its bald head
in the mouth of the grizzly. Take the paw
of the polar bear, smooth the spiky fist flat.
Pluck the marker from his claws, draw them
huge and primeval on the curve of a cave
wall, restore them all to the wild ones
they once were.