My family often call me a bear.
Perhaps it’s my grumpy nature.
I’m known to roar if startled,
behave badly if woken abruptly.

It’s true I like my back to be scratched. If no one with sharp fingernails is available,
I’ll lean against a tree, scrape against it
with such force, I’ll knock it down.

It’s a matter of no small pride
my family feels safe with me.
They think I’m a bear protects them
which I wish I could, but this world.

I’ve studied pictures, read books
watched videos online, seen their great
skeletons in glass cases in museums,
mounted to stand defiant before weak humans;

there is an echo within the bear of man,
the human skeleton is much like the bear’s,
the bear, the man, scare all within this world;
both, in turn, are scared by the world.

But the world trembles before the bear.

That I utter my speech without words,
fur so thick bullets bounce off it, my dagger claws,
my golden eye that looks upon you as prey,
might explain why my family calls me a bear;

why I kneel before this glass case,
terrified, ecstatic.