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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3369 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Visitor Laurie Byro For Lia The opossum was ugly. She waddled into our living room like the deacon of a church, a fat woman with too much lipstick on. She looked up at our cathedral ceiling, as if expecting to see the North Star, or some other symbol of Christ. It was Christmas time. We were in the middle of a fight. I was expected to give up Adam. No, I wouldn’t make up a name for a poem, nor would I deny that I have broken all of my commandments, despite the silver bracelet I wear upon my wrist. The only graceful thing about her, was her hands. She actually pushed our door to come inside and closed it upon her departure. Our voices, while interrupted during this drama, rose and reached a crescendo and I warned him never to feed her as he had done the raccoon or I would continue to hurt him, both of them in fact, by living a life slightly on the outside, never committing to one man’s body. That winter, the snow fell like stars, and I’ve written about that, too. I made a wreath from our woods, put all my old loves on that wreath. Brown acorns became the nipples of a boy I loved, blue jay feathers, the dark mystery of my lover’s eyes. Our house creaked and drifted with all the snow. Forever falling, falling—I wanted so badly to catch a wish off those cold stars. She never returned. When I prepared our garden that spring, my hoe hit a dirty chunk of snow. It was the opossum with her swollen body, engorged from the babies she nursed. Her hands, not quite human, were frozen palm to palm almost as if she’d been praying for us. |
