i heard from someone you're still pretty

a poem written by a bear - tao lin

let me go eat some salmon

why are there coke cans in the river

what if i wore a bullet proof vest during hunting season

i’m a bear; i walk in the forest and look at the river and the river is cold

i saw campers today and they ran away and i was alone and i destroyed their tent

let me go scratch my paw on a tree

let me go eat a salmon

last night i cried onto my salmon

the salmon was sad but it still wanted to live

it wanted to swim and be sad and i ate it under moonlight

i saw a moose scream the other day

it screamed quietly under a tree

i felt embarrassed and sad and i thought, ‘oh, no; oh god, oh my god’

sometimes i climb a tree and sit there and sing very quietly

sometimes i want to go to a shopping mall and chase the humans and claw them

i’ll ride the moose into the shopping mall and ram the humans

the moose and i will ride the escalator and i will hug the moose and the moose and i will cry

i will eat the moose

i don’t care

i will scream and throw the bubblegum machine from the second floor to the first floor

i felt compassion for the salmon and now i don’t care anymore

i’ll walk into a parking lot and chase a large human and hug the human and cry

i’ll walk into a house at night and push the humans off the bed

i’ll stare at the bed and i’ll feel fake

excerpt: untitled

He leaves. Later, after her shower, she puts on her short bathrobe and looks for the shoebox, finding it underneath her clothes in the hallway where Marcus had thrown it. It lies on its side. She takes the box and walks with it in hand to her room where she gently removes the top and takes each heel out individually, as if she were trying not to wake them from their sleep. She sits down on the carpet and places them on the floor in front of her. She looks at them. She stares at the bend near the toe, the high arch of the frame. She stands up and places her feet delicately in the shoes. One, then the other.

She walks to her closet door where a mirror, a college relic, hangs. She stands, turns her head to her side and looks up and down at herself. She stands still for a moment, in her usual manner, before suddenly straightening her back. She loosens her neck, craning it in the most swan-like manner she can think of, and leans against her back leg. She frowns. She puts her hair up in a small ponytail. She pushes the folds of her robe away to reveal more or her thigh and she poses again, this time leaning on the other leg. The heels push her higher, but she is no longer afraid to walk in them. She does a small turn and stops, facing the mirror again. She frowns.

Slowly she tugs at her robe. She loosens the cloth belt and drops the robe on the floor at her feet and she stares at the curves of her body. She moves herself into another pose, placing both heels on top of the robe without meaning to. The red splotches against the white garment. She pushes her hips out. She perks her lips. She winks and she smiles. Finders, keepers.

excerpt: one day in june

I see you there, though, standing against the only tree in this square, watching this very Italian man play his guitar and listen to the chords reverberate off the church walls. I see you with my eyes closed, your hand around a cup of coffee and your tiny feet in those green kangaroo sneakers just like you wore the first day we met as you stood, smoking, tapping the stem of the cigarette with a long-nailed finger painted white. I see you turn and glance backward, catching a glimpse of this scrawny kid with a funny haircut who clearly doesn’t belong here in this ornate city, who leans against a wall with his eyes closed, falling asleep maybe, or just listening. You see something familiar, like my Adam’s apple. I’m told it’s very distinctive. You see that and with a nagging feeling you stub out the cigarette and move toward me to just look and make sure and maybe you get closer and get a strange feeling that cannot be placed and maybe it’s not clear who I am but there’s still a feeling, an itch perhaps of something shared.

You step forward and block the sun from my eyes and you say “Buona sera,” or maybe even a hopelessly prophetic “Sono qui,” once you see that I am no longer a stranger but me, myself, whatever you want me to be. I say “Il mio italiano è orribile.” But still, you insist and grab my hands and say “Lei sa chi sono,” knowing now that this is real, that I have come all this way for you. A brown pigeon with a split white tail lands on the sidewalk and makes pigeon noises as it pecks at my fallen food. You pull me forward and I turn back and see Justin with his mouth open and eyes wide as he grabs Will and spins him around and Will looks and sees and imitates my brother. I think how strange it is that they are looking at me like this, I’m just walking after all, just following you, and I feel your hand slip away and I panic and turn around again but you’re still there. You’re still there and the sun is in my eyes and I reach down and again my hands are actually touching yours. This is something that has never happened before. They feel cold but soft and I think Venice is a good place, a decent place even. I pull out the necklace I have saved for you, but you shake your head and you make me put it back and I keep following you as you pull me into a darkened house that has probably stood for hundreds of years with hard brick walls and blooming flower boxes. Inside it smells like rosemary and perfume and I know immediately that this is the place I’ve sought and I look at the foundation and it looks good, hard and sturdy, like it could resist any flood.