from "Natural History"

IV. The Hyenas

Picture a house in a storybook. It is some color
          houses never are — sky blue, or fire-engine red.

The winding trail that leads to its front door is
          crisscrossed by trees. But when you turn the page

the undulating hills around the little house
          begin to fill with voices. These voices cannot

be drawn. You must imagine the voices, because
          the little people in the storybook cannot hear;

they are cartoons. You thought you were an ignorant
          cartoon, but part of what these voices are saying

is that you are not, come out, come out. In some
          legends they know your name, and say it sweetly;

in others they coo like doves or whine like
          injured dogs. As you stare at the page, the house,

the trees, the voices grow louder, saying come out,
          come out; now they are everywhere, the way water

is everywhere when you are underwater.
          On the last page of the storybook the people

look sad, but it is not because the storybook
          is over. They live in there. It was a momentary

catastrophe. But you will never again live happily
          in your house, its acres and acres of silence.

V. The Bear

In quiet, in the exquisite privacy of a cave, a bear
          gives birth. Outside the cave it's rain, a driving rain,

but inside there is no sound, only the thump-thump
          of her convulsing body and her babies' cries.

Her cubs are white screaming lumps, eyeless until
          she licks their eyes into place, bald until

she paints fur up and down their bodies with her tongue.
          It is a litter of five, at least; it is hard to see

how many have burrowed under her soft belly.
          Also, this is ancient Rome; it is hard to see through

so much time. It makes you wonder how many
          other beautiful sights are hidden away in time,

a cavelike element noted for its dimness. Now she
          and her cubs are emerging from the cave, leaving

one weakling behind. He is lame, and will not survive
          this rainy night two thousand years ago. By now

he is vanishing into the floor of the dark cave,
          even his newly painted fur, even his fresh eyes.

By now he's gone entirely from view.
          All the caves on this hill are identical again.

Dan Chiasson
Natural History
Alfred A. Knopf

Copyright © 2005 by Dan Chiasson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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