Playing Possum
- Erin Conway
- Feb 10, 2019
- 1 min read
The possum lives underneath our pine tree
Where the seeds of unknown origin grew all summer.
The possum is ugly.
But, that is its only problem.
It knows it.
Its problem.
I don’t.
Have you ever watched a pumpkin rot?
It sinks in, the skin
Puckers. Plumps. Puffs.
In the heat, it would explode
Like human rot
In the cold it thins.
When I look across the field,
The clouds appear like smoke.
I think the smoke is fire
My eyes don’t know anything my brain
Talks about
Its only winter exhaust
The kind that rolls through side streets
Growing,
Clinging,
Dirt made visible.
I see the cat behind the barn
On straw. Alone.
Clumped, marred skin and fur
Not the white DNA of birth.
“There’s nothing I can do to help her,”
I say.
Snow dampens my boots.
“She won’t let me help her,”
I add.
No tears. No sweat. All ice.
“I don’t buy into spirit animals,” Dad says.
“I’d like to be an eagle,
But with my luck I’d be a possum.”
I’m jealous of the possum.
The possum is ugly.
But, that is its only problem.
It knows it.
Its problem.
I don’t.
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