That banged and leaned on her door
The night before until her tiny cabin shook.
She wanted to talk about the bear, about
Bears, but she was not ready to talk about
Bears. She took an offered book of poems
And left to buy a new bear horn at the store.
Another friend dropped in with two boys,
The boys wanting to romp with daughter.
They played outside, charging each other
And raising forts from scrap in the little yard.
Another friend dropped in during this play
And stuck her fingers in her ears and said,
“I just can’t bear kids shrieking so loudly.”
She had never had any kids, needless to say.
People who have raised children always
Pretend to be immune to their shenanigans,
Although one notices the twitching hands
And that cracking note in their voices telling
The children of others to behave, behave.
Then, one by one, everyone left. Calm
At the corner table in the sitting room, body
Considered how it felt to be struggling
With language to make it confess itself,
Which was like wrestling an angel to make it
Answer why a supernatural demon should
Serve as no more than messenger to clods,
All while being visited by this series of other
Clods trailing their own same or similar angels
Hanging like golden, floating, hungry hagfish
From each gasping neck, everyone rasping
And gesticulating in the throes of language’s
Demonic possession. A bear. A shrieking child.
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