Dressing the Bear by Susan L. Leary
for Brittany
This time, we give the body shoes. The body of a bear
my brother is building at a factory in the mall to give
to the girl he’s loved since the sixth grade. I’m there to pay
for the bear & to speak of none of it, which is fine
because I’m good at hiding the ways my brother has wanted.
This time is different. At each station, my brother stuffs
only the good parts of himself inside the slack fur.
He gives the bear perfumed bones & shiny gold laces
& breathes so as not to snap them. He considers what the girl
wants & I consider his face as he forgets he has one,
as if in loving the girl & loving her limb by clothed limb,
for once, my brother can love himself. Probably,
that bear is in a Florida landfill, barefoot & decapitated,
its floral button-down shirt torn & full of crawfish stains.
But the girl arrives at my brother’s service in a blue & pink
striped dress, a burst skeleton of human sky—& I remember
the air as we exited the mall that day, the reddest bomb
of a fist before us. Then my brother, with insight delicate
enough not to wreck the evening: It’s harder to catch
the sunrise, he says. You have to really want it.
This time, we give the body shoes. The body of a bear
my brother is building at a factory in the mall to give
to the girl he’s loved since the sixth grade. I’m there to pay
for the bear & to speak of none of it, which is fine
because I’m good at hiding the ways my brother has wanted.
This time is different. At each station, my brother stuffs
only the good parts of himself inside the slack fur.
He gives the bear perfumed bones & shiny gold laces
& breathes so as not to snap them. He considers what the girl
wants & I consider his face as he forgets he has one,
as if in loving the girl & loving her limb by clothed limb,
for once, my brother can love himself. Probably,
that bear is in a Florida landfill, barefoot & decapitated,
its floral button-down shirt torn & full of crawfish stains.
But the girl arrives at my brother’s service in a blue & pink
striped dress, a burst skeleton of human sky—& I remember
the air as we exited the mall that day, the reddest bomb
of a fist before us. Then my brother, with insight delicate
enough not to wreck the evening: It’s harder to catch
the sunrise, he says. You have to really want it.
Susan L. Leary is the author of two poetry collections: Contraband Paradise (Main Street Rag, 2021) and the chapbook, This Girl, Your Disciple (Finishing Line Press, 2019), which was a finalist for The Heartland Review Press Chapbook Prize and a semi-finalist for the Elyse Wolf Prize with Slate Roof Press. Her poetry and nonfiction have appeared or are forthcoming in such places as Tar River Poetry, Tahoma Literary Review, Cherry Tree, Jet Fuel Review, Rust + Moth, and Pithead Chapel. Recently, she was a finalist for the 16th Mudfish Poetry Prize, judged by Marie Howe. She holds an MFA from the University of Miami, where she also teaches Writing Studies. Visit her at www.susanlleary.com.
David Goodrum (Corvallis, Oregon) has had photography published in various art/literature journals and juried into many art festivals. He hopes to create a visual field that transports you away from daily events and into a place that delights in an intimate view of the world. See additional work at www.davidgoodrum.com.