It stuck from my mouth
Like a bristled tongue;
once I left the dream
I knew it was my father.
The name of the animal
and the way it spoke for me,
filling in the o-shaped spaces.
It's impossible to confuse
a true bear with any other animal.
But it took years for me to speak,
always assuming the probing muzzle
and insatiable love of honey
belonged to someone else.
But he was the one.
And really, bears will eat anything.
Gorge themselves on scooped-out salmon,
grubs, fruits and roots, meat
whenever they can find it.
Think of dancing bears,
membrane-toed polars,
and you'll understand my attraction.
But those lips and long muzzle,
eating what they shouldn't,
and the assumption I'd like the same diet.
So it took years to speak plainly,
and even then I still tasted wet fur,
understood his heat against my skin.
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