Te Quiero
A possum has decomposed on Fourth Street
dried to an arc inches from passing traffic,
nothing but sparse hide, wispy claw and wound tail
brown as untanned tendon. Rain has glued it to pavement,
brought pebble and skin to union. I hesitate to call it it.
Who knows what hordes of young
she pouched along branches
or the feral cats he fought away?
Who knows what eager diggers uprooting my grave
many rotten years hence will say about its ring,
its belt buckle, its teeth. Somewhere, maybe
atop the fresh pile of dirt, I will shake my transparent face
as if to say, You fools, look inside its ring.
See what she had engraved while she made me wait,
my back turned, outside the shop. |
