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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 81


has crashed through the barn doors
to terrify the bull and his goal post
horns—plus every rancher
in the valley—with a hibernated
growl louder than a thunder bolt,
louder than a late plane. We scatter
to the mountains like sheep afraid
of slaughter. When can we return?
The bear is stronger than ten
wrestling champions, his eyes repeat
history as we watch him, and we’re
paralyzed as hunters with jack
knives. He’s mauled too many of us:
his paws kick up the dust like it’s
dirty baby powder. Our grass
no longer the color of our greed,
but black as our despair. This bear
will hang around like a dictator:
a wag has nicknamed him Donny.
How can we rid ourselves
of the belligerent bear?
Where are the bull’s bellows
when we need them?

  David Spicer