Isabelle Doyle

The dump bear is so hungry. People see her plodding, 
weirdly elegant, around the green dumpster. They see her 
on two legs banging a tuna can like a battle drum,
slapping flies away from winnowed chicken bones 
with weary paws. They see her crouching in the parking lot, 
naked and vulnerable, over half a cinnabon. 

People don’t know what’s going on with the dump bear. 
The dump bear gets nervous about the disintegration of the planet
in a way where it’s like Girl, you can’t do anything about that. 

She insists on humiliating herself in public, 
and this makes everyone feel uneasy. 
Everyone is reminded of many unpleasant things 
watching the dump bear feast on garbage 
and listen—the dump bear picks up on that. 
If the dump bear is making everybody else uncomfortable, 
there is a good chance she is making herself uncomfortable as well. 

The dump bear used to worry that maybe 
she isn’t as self-aware as she thinks she is—
but no, the dump bear understands 
that she is constituted through action, 
that her classification is a consequence of her own decisions, 
that she could stop anytime, walk back into the woods. 
But the dump bear is so hungry. No matter what, she will eat. 

 

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ISABELLE DOYLE lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and loves chrysanthemums. She is between twelve and thirteen feet tall in high heels.