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Michael SalingerIn a borrowed cabinYou don't want a bear in the kitchen they make a terrible mess so said the neighbor on the phone a tiny electronic voice of caution whose ring we almost didn't answer because we were so sure it couldn't be for us this not being our home it's not their fault, you see they are so hungry this time of year having drowsed through most of the winter and all and this one's pretty aggressive busted right into the house across the creek from you be careful What does one do? when ones place in the food chain has been threatened by 328 pounds of groggy louse infested Ursus Americanus claws capable of raking through a refrigerator's skin as easily as if it were the cake's frosting the beast smells hidden behind magnetic weather-stripped doors canines the size of of a human forefinger implanted in jaws endowed with twelve hundred pound per square inch bite force tiny squares of glistening safety glass from an exploded patio door diamond dusted into matted fur sparkling like snowflakes in the silent moonlight do you go onto the deck? beat pans and pots together turn off the lights hide in the closet amongst the snowshoes do you pray? and to whom what does one do? when reason and logic and your master’s degree in 16th century literature are rendered useless by a confused and frightened carnivore scratching at the kitchen door? |
(photo by Rai Collins) Michael Salinger is a father, poet, educator who travels the world promoting the use of poetry as a literacy tool in classrooms. |
