The Chainsaw BearsErin Elizabeth Smith
The chainsaw bears are like Mark Hamill. Not the duckling youth of his saber-rattling years, but two decades after, parking cars with David Letterman, his cheeks a mass of as candle-wax from the surgery everyone urged him not to have. There is nothing for either of them now, the bears coming apart in the driving mountain rain that pocks their faces into laughter’s smart dimples, claw-footed age. But unlike Mark, they have no manic theatrics to lift them, their mouths chipped to a solid throat or inked into the smile of impossible stardom.
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