when they’re born, opossums are the size of a honeybee.
when i was born, i was just five pounds.
my mom was never supposed to be able to have children.
i never thought i would have a child, too scared of tiny things and
heartbeats,
but now he lives in the backyard, refusing to come inside.
i’ve seen children do this at the park and on television,
but they always get hungry and go home eventually to their mothers
and beds
like my mom says i did when i was young.
he’s not like the other children though.
he has claws and dreams and large black marble like eyes
that stare at me through the window all through the night.
he says he plans to leave me,
sneak through the garden fence and run
until he cannot remember me.
most opossums live to be three,
but i have no memories before 23.
i’m not sure i even existed before then.
i only have my mom’s stories and scrapbooks to prove i did,
but in every photo, under just the right light,
i swear i have shiny large black marble like eyes.
most opossums have up to three litters a year
and up to thirteen babies each time,
but i’d never had even one before him.
most opossums know how to play dead,
allowing flies to land on their open eyes,
but i am not sure i have ever even been alive.
when i woke up, my mom told me opossums do not live around
here.
mother opossums collect dried leaves, grasses, and mosses
for their den to keep their children warm.
as my mom rakes the leaves in my backyard into large black
trashbags,
she asks me if i’ve considered getting back on depression
medication.
