BEAR TALK

Arabella Mcclendon

I lied to you. Only once.

One word. Something offhand that doesn’t matter

anymore. Something you

said to me in Roanoke.

It rained while the couch

we crashed on was at

its day job: the waiting

room of the stray cat

crematorium. Stray

yellow upholstered

cushions under the

bridge we found. I said,

“Someone lives here,”

and Roanoke cracked open.

That night, something

warm put its arms

around me, slid the

gun out of my belt.

I was furious with

you until I realized

it was only the couch.

Do you remember the

night I tried to leave

your house? I thought

I could make it to

the Ohio turnpike

by sunrise. You said,

“Sit down.”

Actually,

you said, “Please,”

but I don’t want to write

that word right now.

The first sip out of the

bottle you poured

too much vodka in.

I was drunk in an

instant. You’ve got to

get lower than that

to shoot pool. If you

want to see straight

into the pocket.

In the thisness of

the parking lot I

could see the ice

creeping up your

forearms and I knew

I was in for it.

Your love pulls on

my shoulders like

the wet dress I wore

on the corner, and

that one lie isn’t

getting any lighter,

either, soldier.

We had the bear talk.

It went like this: “There’s bears.”