For Vilma, Berlin

eat my cubs?  
It would not do, I suppose, to  
leave them under some rock.  
These hand-fed zoo-folk, how queer  
they can be. Feeding,  
feeding, feeding. As if

a polar bear lived

for nothing but food.

And to be photographed and shit

and stud or breed and, basically,  
just stick around. In a zoo  
if I was a polar bear

I would rather sleep.

And nobody would know  
the weight of dreams that keep you  
alive through snow and starve.