The Story of the Two Bears
My poodle smells bear, Pat says,
Fifi refuses to go near the creek.
We share yesterday's news: a man
sees a bear asleep in an avocado tree
close by. A crowd gathers and claps
until it wakes and runs away.
We remember last year's bear, the one
who raided Kurt Jones's chicken coop —
angry neighbors called his chickens bait.
They hired him to drug the animal, Pat says,
but that sharpshooter hid in the dark,
and sharpshooted that bear dead.
We sigh. And I head for the creek.
Once upon a time grizzlies roamed here.
Now smaller black bears surprise us
when hills turn brown and dry.
Creekside, I stare at the avocado tree
and imagine our Goldilocks startled,
roused from her "just right" bed
and I hope for a fairytale ending.
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Eden
He's dangerous, this man
behind the fruit stand.
He grins away my age
and finds me at fifteen.
Our eyes meet, and he says,
My name is Javier,
no relation to Saint Xavier.
A deer in his headlights,
I taste all his look evokes.
His question calls me back. I say,
Apples? Yes. I want apples.
Prayer At San Francisco Peets
His gray beard and ponytail
brush his black cassock.
Breaking cookie pieces,
wafer size, the priest
places one in his mouth
and shuts his eyes —
he's in communion.
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