The chainsaw bears do not know
The Velveteen Rabbit, but if they did

perhaps they would wonder
what love could turn them into—

the reared paws clawed, the teeth
opening from their newly watered

mouths. What life they could shake
from the river trout, the unsuspecting

tourist children, the store manager
who stubs his toe on the bears’

guiltless trunks and calls them stupid
and fucking. And when the town is steamed

with these bodies, maybe the bears would
make a home in the Christian family

restaurant, eating through the frozen cod,
a bale of potatoes meant to be transformed

by the simplicity of mayonnaise,
a square vat of babbling oil.