There’s no terror like the terror
of the sensory-deprivation tank
(because you supply your own terror).
It will not be the men who kill me,
it will be the women
who hate the men.
When they cannot kill the bear, they blame
I am limb-sawed, uprooted.
A mute stump.
The bear still roams—his eyes shine,
his coat smooth as if freshly groomed.
In the tank, I blink and blink
into dead air.
I think, If only I could be the bear for them.
if you meet a bear
who whispers, Kill me,
you will know my voice.