My Furry Buddy

I wonder if you could domesticate
a baby polar bear. Would it let you shave it
naked, so it wouldn’t get too hot
under the toasty rays of the Malibu sun?

After our theoretical surfing lesson
from Neil DeGrasse Tyson,
would we slowly slurp Coca-Cola
from the long-necked glass?
Would we nudge our complementing
pink and green sunshades onto
the sunscreen-slathered tips of our noses,
to gaze upon the doctors and
the lawyers, and the ducks
that are waddling past?
—Or wait, I mean, the ducks who
are waddling by—
as fireworks pop off
in the middle of—pop, pop—
the day,
because it just so happens
to be the 4th of July.

How long would I have before
the polar bear's fur grew too long?
And Dante—that’s his name now—
would cross his arms and
sit stubbornly in the sun, refusing
to get his haircut,
being clearly too hot but insisting he was not.
And I’d say, "Are too."
And he’d say, "I hate you."
And I’d say, "I hate you, too."
And he’d say he’s gonna run away
to be with his people
at the Cincinnati Zoo—
because Dante was becoming
an angsty teenage polar bear,
with proud fur and white mittens
that could stretch the length of Kalamazoo.
So escaping from me would really
only take about a step or two…

How long would it take before his fur
grew so long that he could stalk and hide
behind his bangs, like Hamlet,
and then stab me in the back
when I least expect it?

And the doctors and the lawyers
would leap out from behind
a red velvet curtain,
grinning wide, gripping matching,
bedazzled daggers—
and Dante, my dear, sweet Dante,
would raise his own as the ducks scattered.

"Et tu, Dante?" I’d whisper.

And time would pause—
just hover there,
waiting for us to notice,
as the ducks, startled,
froze mid-step,
caught between chaos
and falling back in line,
while I stretched the moment

A bit further into time.

And Dante,
his white mittens soft
as the day I found him,
would let his dagger fall.

He’d reach for my face,
cradling it in his paws,
his touch gentle,
his eyes locked on mine—
a mirror to myself,
And all things divine.

And we’d both say,
from the exact same mind—
(at the exact same time)

"I love you,
and I want to be with you,
naked forever,
in the fabulous, glorious,
Malibu sunshine."

My Scaly Buddies

If I say pangolin, can you conjure
 an image of the scaly creature in your head?
 If not, consult Google Images.
 They are striking little guys—
 with their petal-shaped scales
 and polite claws, folded in front
 like a child about to ask their mother for a cookie.

Or like a girlfriend from another time,
 asking you to scratch her back…
 —then asking for just a little bit longer.

But if you were to scratch a pangolin’s back,
 what would it feel like—for both you and the pangolin?
 I can almost feel what it would feel like for me
 (after a deep dive on Google Images)
 and I’ve decided it’s what I’m meant to do.
So I’ve been stroking pinecones with my eyes closed—
 trying to get close.

Did you know pangolins are trafficked in China?
 Their scales are said to promote lactation
 in new mothers. Their meat allegedly melts
 in your mouth. Legend says their spirits linger.
 ¥36,000 per kilo.

I didn’t know that—
 but now I’ve liquidated everything
 and pulled some strings in Shanghai
 to commission two puppet pangolins—
 one for each hand—so I can scratch my scaly buddies
 all day long, as I sit in a catatonic state,
 mourning what’s been sacrificed
 for the sake of sensation—
 anticipating the ghost girls
 who rap on my window
 when the moon looks lonely.

R. J. Gooseman is a poet and educator based in Ohio. His work has appeared in Little Old Lady Comedy, GRITLICKER, and elsewhere. A Cincinnati native, he is active in the Columbus poetry scene, where he regularly reads at Kafe Kerouac. His writing blends absurdism, humor, and emotional turmoil, and, to his chagrin, often rhymes. He is the founding Editor-in-Chief of One Shot Magazine (oneshotmagazine.org), an independent literary magazine focused on risk and the celebration of authentic voices.