The Chainsaw BearsErin Elizabeth Smith
The chainsaw bears want nothing but to be bought today. They are tired of being touched by travelers who don’t want them, hands that linger on their paws, a tan arm canvassed across their bare wooden shoulders. It’s unfair they can’t choose their homes – cabins in the cleared wood, the living rooms of A-frames where girls in laurel green skirts would clean their dusty shoulders, touch up the inky knobs of paint on their dry noses. But for now they are okay with settling – like silt kicked up in a glass pool or tiny houses that moan in the mornings under their compromise and weight.
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