Poems by John Popielaski

Bear Encounter

“Identify yourself by talking calmly so the bear
knows you are a human...” –National Park Service

by John Popielaski

From Canary Spring 2025

John lives in the Connecticut River Watershed, just down the road from Meshomasic State Forest.

The bear, I’m guessing, knows what century this is
and ambles like a luggage salesman from the fifties
up the gravel driveway to the back door of my home
because the worn path advertises that’s the way
the people living here decided they would come and go.

The black bear does not knock because he knows I know
he saw me looking out the window by coincidence
as he came up the driveway, so there’s no point
in pretending I’m not home, no point in flattening myself
against a wall behind a door until the bear,
deflated, feelings dented, finally turns away
and wonders what is wrong with me or, worse,
what’s wrong and irremediable with him.

I therefore slide the door and ask, “How can I help you?”

“Your wife, she threw a pot at me this spring.”

“I know. We had an argument about that.”

“She home?”

“She’s working.”

“I was only eating birdseed. Didn’t even bend the pole.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” I remove a square of suet
from its packaging and hand it to the bear.

He sits down in an Adirondack chair and says,
“Because I’ve been here plenty and I see her
watching what I’m up to from the window
and she doesn’t seem to mind me being here.”

I sit in the companion chair and say,
“She gave up nicotine this spring. Around then,
maybe later, she got on the Lexapro.
She microdoses now, so I don’t know.
It doesn’t curb her drinking like I read it might.
It’s nothing personal to do with you
is what I’m saying. She’s thrown pots at me.”

“You understand all winter I live lightly, right?
I basically don’t utilize a single natural resource.
All of it is yours as far as I’m concerned.
When I emerge come spring, though, hungry
as a motherfucker, I’d prefer your wife just say
‘Hey, bear’ or something civil if she doesn’t want to share.”

“Another suet?”

“Sure.”

He thanks me when I hand it to him.

I sit down and ask where he picked up the language.
“Oh, you know, it can’t be helped.”

He eats his suet, and we listen to the birds.

I ask him what he knows about the myths
of man becoming bear and bear becoming man.

“That ship has sailed.”

“What ship?”

“You have no spirit animal. No totem.
You don’t have a clan.”

“You want a beer to wash that down with?”

“In a bowl, if you don’t mind.”

We drink our beers in our own ways.
The sunlight filters through the maple.

“This is nice,” he says.

“There’s talk about a hunt, you know.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course not. I just thought it’s information
you should know. It’s nothing imminent.”

“You’re angling for something.”

“I’m just saying, if it comes to that, a hunt,
you have a safe space here.”

“You’re angling for something.”

“No, I’m not. Like what?”

“Atonement.”

“For the pot?”

“For everything,” he says as he upends the empty bowl.

“Can I come with you?”

“You’re not credible. You wouldn’t last a day.
Besides, I can’t get past this feeling
that you’re hiding something from me.”

“What if I were naked in the moonlight?”

“Naked in the moonlight,” laughs the black bear,
disappearing through the trees and up the hillside
in the back. “You people.”

Mountain Lion

by John Popielaski

From Canary Summer 2013

There have been rumors,
unconfirmed reports,
that you, long absent,
have returned.
The failed farms yielded
to the seedlings,
and the forests, first felled
centuries ago,
came back. It’s not
the range historically
your line is used to,
but there’s game
and people do not wander
too far off the trails.
There will be trouble
if you’re spotted, though.
The camera-phone, the modern-day
equivalent of the pitchfork,
will be brandished,
and you’ll find returning
to the fringes difficult.
But there are those
who root for you
and understand you only know
predation, gliding
like an old fear through the woods
in which the civic-minded
will leave poison and take care
their hands do not get injured
setting the excruciating traps.