Jess Smith

for Dean

Late morning and the dark bear
crosses the path not thirty feet
before us – his plush sofa body

wobbling toward a bright flap
of wrapper caught in the brush. I clench
both fists instantly, watching

the bear sniff a straight line
for a Snickers that no longer
exists. Finding the wrapper

empty, will the driven beast
not sate himself on the nearest,
pliant flesh? Perhaps I do not

understand anything
about bears. I have lived a long time
in the city, have barely seen

an animal in years, but today I
am with you. I am always lucky
for that, particularly in this

risky instance because you
are from Idaho where bears
are bigger than restaurants,

so you hold me and say scream,
start screaming, which seems
wrong, to alert the bear,

but you say scream,
don’t make eye contact, just keep
screaming, two behaviors

I have learned well
to perform in tandem. You scream,
too, and hold me while I scream,

pausing to say it’s fine, he doesn’t
want us, but I’ve never
known a predator

not to want and I’ve never known you
not to soothe me even if comfort invites
the lie. Still I scream

enough for the both of us, my bare
summer arms and thighs trembling
at the volume. The bear looks,

and looks, and turns away, ambling deeper
into the forest and you say don’t move
too fast but I’ve already taken off

at a sprint, still screaming, leaving you
there, on the dirt path, whispering
your sweet safety to no one.