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In late winter
In late winter I sometimes glimpse bits of steam coming up from some fault in the old snow and bend close and see it is lung-colored and put down my nose and know the chilly, enduring odor of bear.
I take a wolf’s rib and whittle it sharp at both ends and coil it up and freeze it in blubber and place it out on the fairway of the bears.
And when it has vanished I move out on the bear tracks, roaming in circles until I come to the first, tentative, dark splash on the earth.
And I set out running, following the splashes of blood wandering over the world. At the cut, gashed resting places I stop and rest, at the crawl-marks where he lay out on his belly to overpass some stretch of bauchy ice I lie out dragging myself forward with bear-knives in my fists.
On the third day I begin to starve, at nightfall I bend down as I knew I would at a turd sopped in blood, and hesitate, and pick it up, and thrust it in my mouth, and gnash it down, and rise and go on running.
On the seventh day, living by now on bear blood alone, I can see his upturned carcass far out ahead, a scraggled, steamy hulk, the heavy fur riffling in the wind.
I come up to him and stare at the narrow-spaced, petty eyes, the dismayed face laid back on the shoulder, the nostrils flared, catching perhaps the first taint of me as he died.
I hack a ravine in his thigh, and eat and drink, and tear him down his whole length and open him and climb in and close him up after me, against the wind, and sleep.
And dream of lumbering flatfooted over the tundra, stabbed twice from within, splattering a trail behind me, splattering it out no matter which way I lurch, no matter which parabola of bear-transcendence, which dance of solitude I attempt, which gravity-clutched leap, which trudge, which groan.
Until one day I totter and fall— fall on this stomach that has tried so hard to keep up, to digest the blood as it leaked in, to break up and digest the bone itself: and now the breeze blows over me, blows off the hideous belches of ill-digested bear blood and rotted stomach and the ordinary, wretched odor of bear,
blows across my sore, lolled tongue a song or screech, until I think I must rise up and dance. And I lie still.
I awaken I think. Marshlights reappear, geese come trailing again up the flyway. In her ravine under old snow the dam-bear lies, licking lumps of smeared fur and drizzly eyes into shapes with her tongue. And one hairy-soled trudge stuck out before me, the next groaned out, the next, the next, the rest of my days I spend wandering: wondering what, anyway, was that sticky infusion, that rank flavor of blood, that poetry, by which I lived?
In late winter I sometimes see small bits of steam coming up from some crack in the old snow and lean in close and see it is the color of lungs and put my nose down and recognize the cold, lasting smell of bear.
I take a wolf's rib and carve it sharp at both ends and twist it up and freeze it in fat and place it out on the bears' path.
And when it has disappeared I follow the bear tracks, wandering in circles until I find the first, uncertain, dark splash on the ground.
And I begin running, following the splashes of blood moving across the world. At the cuts, gashes where he rested I pause and rest, at the marks where he lay on his belly to cross some stretch of soft ice I lie down pulling myself forward with bear knives in my hands.
On the third day I start to starve, at nightfall I bend down as I knew I would at a piece of feces soaked in blood, and hesitate, and pick it up, and shove it in my mouth, and chew it down, and rise and continue running.
On the seventh day, living now only on bear blood, I can see his turned carcass far ahead, a ragged, steamy mass, the heavy fur fluttering in the wind.
I approach him and look at the narrow, petty eyes, the shocked face laid back on the shoulder, the nostrils open, catching perhaps the first scent of me as he died.
I cut a hole in his thigh, and eat and drink, and tear him down his entire length and open him and climb inside and close him up after me, against the wind, and sleep.
And dream of moving clumsily over the tundra, stabbed twice from within, leaving a trail behind me, spilling it out no matter which way I stumble, no matter which arc of bear-transcendence, which dance of solitude I try, which gravity-bound leap, which trudging, which groan.
Until one day I wobble and fall— fall on this stomach that has worked so hard to keep up, to digest the blood as it flowed in, to break down and digest the bone itself: and now the wind blows over me, blows away the horrible belches of poorly digested bear blood and rotten stomach and the common, miserable smell of bear,
blows across my sore, relaxed tongue a song or screech, until I think I must get up and dance. And I lie still.
I wake up I think. Marshlights reappear, geese come trailing again up the flyway. In her ravine under old snow the mother bear lies, licking clumps of smeared fur and watery eyes into shapes with her tongue. And one hairy-footed step stuck out before me, the next groaned out, the next, the next, the rest of my days I spend wandering: wondering what, anyway, was that sticky mixture, that strong taste of blood, that poetry, by which I lived?