It couldn’t have been the dead of winter

when the bear broke the window,
found her way

to the kitchen and sat in the dark
with food mounded around her, kneading
_                                   _ her claws into the counter

with the pleasure of it all.

Bears den in winter,

even though I picture January air
_                 _ slipping in behind her like a new cub.

It must have been autumn when the pane cracked
in the early morning.

After, she knew too much.

Boxes plucked from cabinets, ripe
tomatoes from the shelf.
_                                           _ She came back

often, pressing her nose against the plywood
nailed where the glass had been.

_                               _ They heard her outside,
_                                                     _saw the board flex
_               _with the weight of her skull.

Then one day after mopping
and before splitting wood,
_                                     _ they killed her,

_                                                                 _ knowing
she would always be there

on the other side
of the wall,
asking to come back inside.