She Slips a Totem under Her Pillow

145 SHE SLIPS A TOTEM UNDER HER PILLOW MARCI VOGEL When I am weary of existing as a city human, I imagine my body as a bear, gathering blackberries, making a den, sleeping all winter. I whisper to my dreaming form: Your animal nature thrives not on oil or water, not through air, but on earth, the weight of it, solid. When I was a girl, some scientist put me in a class for the gifted. I thought we were going to get presents. The teacher assigned a report instead. Such disappointment! I went home, placed my finger on the encyclopedia for bears. Opened it as if it were a special occasion, copied every word in my best printing: Grizzlies belong to a species of bears called Ursus arctos. They are sometimes called silvertips. Years pass: I am not a bear but a different teacher on a class trip where we traipse all the kids a mile in the dark for a lecture on survival. Mountain climbers eat butter to stay warm. I would rather eat fish. On the way back to the flatlands, we file past a real bear who watches through unclosed eyes. Only one child notices, and no one believes because she is the sort 146 who sees what is wild. I once knew a girl who fell in love with a bear forever towering at the wildlife museum. Instead of fear, the girl, just steady on her two human legs, would bare her teeth and growl. Listen: through deep winter sleep, I hear her. ...