The sun bears climb a jungle
gym of rusty pipes
in a cracked concrete pit.
They rise above tumbleweeds
of hair. Their dingy fur hangs
loose as old brown dressing
gowns. They have no names.
Short, pigeon-toed, swaying
like pensioners on two
unsteady feet, they barely
look like bears. They exist
on a diet of sliced cucumbers.
For eight yuan, you can buy
a handful. The sunburned girl
in a fake North Face sells
them there, in the shadow
of the Great Wall. Angry,
bitter, a bit holier than thou—
but then I felt the hot blush
of embarrassment at how
fun it is to throw cucumbers
to half-blind bears and see
them snapped up in mid-air.