YELLOW-YELLOW
published in Appalachia (Summer-Fall 2011)
Bugs dug from bark aren’t salty enough,
and the storm-toughened pith found beneath
is hardly sweet. The black bear called Yellow-Yellow
has learned to crave the refined treats backpackers haul.
Snickers bars hilariously sweet, and Ruffles chips
stiff with starch and salt, are secured in special
canisters labeled “bear proof” on store shelves.
In the field, bears hunch over these puzzles
like Neanderthal addicts trying to solve childproof vials.
They test the intricate locking systems—holding down tabs
with teeth while rotating cylinders with feet—trying to pry
away a prize—the treats inside a strong reward for fast learners.
Product development gurus use the Adirondacks
as their testing ground—Yellow-Yellow’s habitat—
because of her knack at conquering every container,
and proving our nomenclature “bear-proof” in error.
MEMORY CAN BE SPICED
published in Bluestem (2011)
Memory can be spiced by something simple as a raccoon
caught by flashlight in the cabaret act of stealing ginger snaps.
Spot-lit on the stage of a campsite picnic table, the raccoon
may hope for cover of darkness, but adapts and slides the inner liner
neatly from the cumbersome box, lumbers under curtain of shrubbery
to devour one more tasty invention of humankind. Which is why
rules are made by discerning park rangers and other appointed leaders.
Do this. Don’t do that. But that can take the humor out of life,
now that even the errancy of stars has been publicized, the fact
that they’re speeding apart. Can the night sky still be enjoyed
without popcorn or other enhancements? Can a vinyl-skinned tent
protect us from the elements, the panicked laughter of wild roses?
When you’re young like we were, raspberries are the spice
of tongues colliding. Nature’s deepwater gorges, what can be so perfect
as undiscovered, reflexive nature when the winds slow down at sunset,
the ripples calm, except for the touch hand to hand, which transcends?