Angie Werren

A n g i e   W e r r e n

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opossum

a dog is barking opinions. he is my ex-husband, waking neighbors. something rustles in the backyard, tips over a stack of empty clay pots. this night is in my head, feeling its way because there is no moon; there are no stars. I open the door and the opossum screams, frozen in guilt. light turns his black eyes to gold. his teeth, his pink tongue are fear and they writhe, they gnash. neither one of us moves. we feign, our dead tails curling like parasitic worms.

the night stands with its feet flat on the ground.

lake

the indian is sitting in a tree near the edge of a spillway. he whistles, he calls. he wants me to climb—to fold legs and arms, to balance on bare feet. I take off my shoes. it is cold on this branch. his brown skin is feathered; he wraps me in a wing. he points at the deep-water lake with a cigarette. this is where we come from, he says. we swim until we can walk. we walk until we can fly. there is time for everything. he shifts, and his yellow beak is wet in the setting sun.

he has nothing more to say.