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August 5, 2015 Poetry

It Was The Summer They Let The Opossum Into Your Bed

Natasha Kochicheril Moni

It Was The Summer They Let The Opossum Into Your Bed photo

 

            for not shutting the kitchen

door all the way.

 

The summer you learned

            who was dealing

what. You were

 

applying to programs,

your pointillism, neat

            in ink, when

 

a wind disappeared

your drawing.

 

            You looked for it.

I looked for you.

 

            It was the summer of one

color—I won’t tell you—

of holidays

 

            that didn’t fall.

Easter was always sudden

as the flu.

 

            I remember

the tracks, that rock

I’d never—

 

            Way to Blue

and your van that revved

without key.

 

—There were stories—

 

            Minnesota, Pennsylvania,

states ending in A. Dark magic

and your family

           

            of anise, born again

with a Yamaha

            on your lap.

 

We drove to Poughkeepsie

            to hear the locals

pronounce it.

 

I delayed my calypso,

            words that ended

in vowels.

 

Your mother prayed

            for my weeping

and never—

 

            Somewhere there was

a meal for two consumed

by one.

 

You blamed your sugar.

I blamed you.

 

image: Tammy Mercure


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