Bear
This carving’s tame.
Children may sit
safely on its back.
They may stroke
the mighty muscles.
Its jaws are wedged in a grin.
Its red tongue hangs still.
No saliva drops from its chin.
Marble glass eyes.
Woodworm, like moth,
have left holes in its back.
More: many a crack
ensures its tameness.
Its shoulders hunch.
Sixteen claws
probe the concrete
museum floor.
Its nearer ear
bears small chips like
my grandmother’s tea-set.
There’s lots of room
for slips between cups
and this bear’s lips.
I can sense
death’s closeness
when I smell its breath.
I feel it move
beneath my hand.
I know you’re in there,
Bear,
alive, alert, angry, hungry.
Cold sweat covers
my false, carved skin.