Joseph Young

That’s a dog, he said, thumbing a pink eyebrow.No, she answered, that’s a bear.Muzzle’s too long.That’s how they come around here.The creature climbed the far hill, cleaving the dew grass in two halves. It got to the door and pushed in, a clattering of end tables.Bears don’t act that way, he said.Dogs who act that way get taken off.He grabbed her by a hip, turned her around. Her nose was burnt so he kissed it.Like aloe jelly, she said. She pressed his dimple. Bzzt, she said.The bear or dog came out again, a ham in its plastic among its teeth. The dog got to the hill, stumbled, the ham set loose and tumbling down. The bear watched it roll until it hit the creek, a little plosh.Dog’s going to be unhappy, he said.Bear’s going to be pissed, she said.He pressed against her. Thighs, groin, stomach.Everything about you, she said.All about you, he answered.The bear, the dog, was rolling in the creek. It howled. Another world of pleasure in its sound.