The Bear’s Daughter

She walks on two legs, but her feet have claws
Not nails, enough to gut the man who tries
to harm her. She is fair but has dark eyes
whose stare can drown you. In her sleeps she roars

sometimes, her sleeps are long and last whole weeks.
She gluts on food before and wakes up thin.
Awkward for wardrobe. Furs against the skin
draped and not grown there. Loves the thin high shrieks

of small beasts as she flays them. She will eat
them later raw and whole. And pick her teeth.
She wears her father’s head; but underneath
is beautiful, men say. In wind and sleet

she dances solitary and alone.
Don’t love her – she will chew you to the bone.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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