Possums or: We Are All the Things We Hate by Tyler Odeneal
"I gazed at the possum, the mother, her pinkish nose. I could see her underside, round and sagging against the bars – a native imprisoned in her own land."
I saw the light again. Colorful, bright, a blur while screaming—everything is changed now. * * * After Grandma persuaded Grandpa to put the knife away, he caught them with canned fruit. Don’t be afraid to make a mess, he’d say, a smile cracking his face. Juice from the fruit spilled and I wanted juice on my hands too. Grandpa stopped, rubbed his palms against the grass beneath us – rid himself, seemingly, of this sweet thing – advised me with dark, engulfing eyes, to do the same. He picked at the edge of the can, plopped fruit into an old bowl, the kind made of porcelain, floral designs, cracks running throughout, wrinkled fingers pushing it inward. Slowly, he set the trap’s door. We’ll catch the rest of ‘em. He took
12
|
MASKS
• SPRING
2021
