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Poem 32: The Bear

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The Bear


My friend got mauled by a bear.

All I could do was stare.

He died from his injuries, of course.

He thought he’d hunt bears like the Norse.

Our friends say he got what he deserved

but my loyalty to him never swerved.

I felt guilty as hell for not saving his life

and for letting the bear’s claws pierce his throat like a knife.

I will never go camping again

because now my friend’s death is on my brain.

I hunt bears now for sport.

Fuck you if you have a pious retort.


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