I Feed Bears

Black bears climb trees, scare people, and study me.

They know all about the old honey holes, broken

black boysenberry thickets, the licking of sticky paws,

thorn pricks, the differences between blood and juice.

I’d rather a bear ate me than judged me.

But, I don’t really look like berries. Blueberries

don’t make you blue unless you are already.

Smash them into your skin and, if you’re European,

you’ll turn a pale purple. Raspberries make me ruddy.

Every huckleberry goes to pressure cookers and canning.

No matter how I color myself, bears remember

who I am. When I attempt to hand feed them,

bacon or bread or salmon, they hide behind skinny

blackberry bushes, vanish into starvation’s

open-mouthed shadows, and flinch forever away

from me like I’m the predator with nothing to eat.

[TRIGGER WARNING FOR POEM 0 MILES AHEAD]

City Trip

“Who needs hallucinogens

when you have all these cities?”

masked raccoons asked before

diving into a downtown dumpster

to suck on sweet, spilled anti-freeze

and lick away empty pizza box grease.

I didn't remember dosing

or being so hungry

that I'd snack on blotter paper

or take an unnecessary risk

with unknown fungus

grown in some unnatural shit.

I found myself flinching

from flashing neon signs

after months spent basking

in soothing sunshine and soft starlight.

I was, as they say, having a bad trip, man.

A bald eagle on the horizon

began flying much too straight.

Her wings turned rigid. She banked.

And became a booming jet plane.

Thunder tried to muffle

the combustible screams

ancient bones unleash

when engineers and ignition

turn fossils into fuel

to twist propellers faster

and make the trip so much quicker

When the thunder failed,

I knew it never existed.

I just needed something

to roar back at the engines.

Fantasy, of course,

can almost always be

projected much farther

than stark reality.

Almost always, thankfully.

Because these urban psychedelics,

created by an insane chemist,

were far too harsh for me.

And, when I tried to hide

I found a beautiful bullsnake

coiled in the shade who

turned out to be an inviting rope.

Fortunately, it wasn't long enough

to hang myself with

and end this never-ending,

nightmarish trip.

ABOUT:

Will Falk is a biophilic poet, activist, and attorney. The natural world speaks and poetry is how Will listens. His poems have appeared through Blood Tree Literature, Cathexis Northwest Press, Chapter House Journal, Roi Fainéant, and Wayfarer Magazine, among others. His first full-length collection of poetry When I Set the Sweetgrass Down was published by Wayfarer Books in 2023. You can follow his work at willfalk.org. Follow on Instagram and Facebook @will_falk35.

EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: TheSheepdogs — Take A Trip