Elemental
after Carl Phillips
To hear above the frothing river’s symphony the full-throat roar
of a Kodiak brown bear who realizes a male is threatening
her two small cubs, to see her turn, salmon blood streaming
from her muzzle as she rears up, charges, curved claws swiping
his flank, his shoulder, to witness how she throws her furred head back
and summons a sound so elemental you feel it at the base of your skull—
a sound you recognize because you made it once when your daughter
wrenched her soft hand from yours and slid into her dealer’s car—
to cover your eyes when, despite wounds given and received,
one cub is lost, this is when you remember—in your flesh and sinew,
in the surge of your pulse—how it feels to be a mother who howls.
Cindy Buchanan grew up in Alaska, has a B.A. in English from Gonzaga University, and studies poetry with Jeanine Walker in Seattle, Washington. She is a member of two monthly poetry groups, is an avid runner and hiker, and splits her time between Seattle and the Baja. Her work has been published in ONE ART, Chestnut Review, Evening Street Review, Hole in the Head Review, The Inflectionist Review, and other journals. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net. Her chapbook, Learning to Breathe (Finishing Line Press), was published in 2023. Find her at cindybuchanan.com.