mama bear on prozac
no longer a threat, or possibly, herself.
mama bear is lights out.
it is winter, on prozac, and this is her way,
comfortable, drifting.
standard poking has no effect.
talk down to her like she’s an addled child,
make her the butt of the joke.
she doesn’t growl or bare her teeth
except to smile.
mama bear is a bean bag.
sometimes she rouses, remembering jabs
that set her desperate,
clawing, remorseful;
sometimes she fears she’s lost the survival instinct.
worry fades to dull, a healing balm. it’s okay.
mama bear is nothing
if not tractable.
in her dreams it is spring.
more than anything,
she just wants everyone to get along.