One-Eyed Black Bear

A poem about the loss of the wild and more

Photo by Marc-Olivier Jodoin on Unsplash

He’s in the trash again.
In plastic un-biodegradable bags
and coffin waste, like empty prayers.
He’s searching for something more,
I can tell from his frantic movements,
wild eyes, his grunting and wheezing,
coughing up whatever won’t leave
his lungs.

When he looks up, I can see
he’s got one eye and a mangled paw.
A trap? A fight? He’s fur matted, ribs
sticking out like ancient boneyards.
Looks like he’s been shot twice by a hunter —
maybe that’s how he lost the eye.

I waved him down. Asked if he needed
something fresh. His eye shone like a moon
in a clear New Mexican sky. He looked into me
trying to figure out who I was. I wanted
to tell him that I was one choice away
from where he was now, searching
for answers at the bottom of the trash.