One season my stomach shrank
from staying in bed for months
so hungry. When bears hibernate,
their bodies recycle to stay
alive: reabsorbing urine, feces,
like a dream each night.
In those winter days,
my stronger self receded
into that hole we all fear.
Dirt from every angle. No one
thinks so, but bears do wake
in that shadowed cave,
shifting to ward off sores
before going back under.
I showed up to the meetings,
I walked in the shade,
and my life survived on nothing
but itself, reenacting
its own memory. Like entering a room:
surely I had ventured to get there,
but the journey was lost.
I could not remember the feeling
of water as it showered down.
Spring returned; I emerged.
What did I learn? To survive
you must hide
in the hollow you came from.
If you can’t find it, dig.
No, that’s not it. The dirt didn’t
save me. I was spared.
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