The Chainsaw Bears

The chainsaw bears would do anything
to not be bears – put their cubs

on clearance, let teenagers etch into
their forearms, pocketknives tonguing

the gnarled flesh. If only they could be
rainbow trout or willow trees, a cool glass

of tea sweating on a restaurant bench.
The ice that jangles in its cup

like stuffed bells, the clapper a tongue
gone dumb in the dark cave of its mouth.