Polar bear in the central park zoo

Polar Bear in the Central Park Zoo

Watched, captivating, he swims to the rocky shelf

and berths a beat before pushing off with plate-sized

foot, belly up, yellow head plowing a watery furrow.

He soaks. A forepaw backstrokes the water once,

idly, but with force enough to speed his streamlined

bulk across the dole of open sea he’s fathomed utterly.

He dives as if tethered, submerged body spread and flat

against the viewing glass, mounted momentarily, a trophy

hide on the lodge wall. Watchers shriek, but he moves on

his fixed orbit, water-logged planet, up to the rock, a push,

one backstroke, dive, eyes closed the while. His swim,

compulsory as a Busby Berkeley routine, has captivated

the bear, too, or made him half captive, while the other half,

repeating his invention move for move, seeks a different

outcome: a new mercy, colder, austere; more genuine ice.