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The Bear

By Dan ChiassonPosted Tuesday, Jan. 27, 2004, at 11:59 AM ET

Listen to Dan Chiasson reading this poem here.

In quiet, in the exquisite privacy of a cave, a bear
is giving birth. Outside the cave a steady rain falls

but here there are no echoes, only the sound
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 them 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 famous 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.

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Dan Chiasson is the author of three books, most recently a work of literary criticism, One Kind of Everything. He teaches at Wellesley College.

Click here to visit Robert Pinsky's Favorite Poem Project site.

To submit poetry to Slate, send up to five poems and a self-addressed, stamped envelope to: Robert Pinsky, Slate Magazine, Boston University, 236 Bay State Road, Boston, MA, 02215.

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