The possum that crawled up under my porch stayed there for three weeks squealing like a bitch and then just went quiet one day. I guess he died there in the dark, lonely and vile. When I look in the mirror, I see my mother’s face reflected back, her flat gray eyes like stagnant pools. She calls me up just about every day of the week when she’s drunk and wants to scream at something. I keep waiting for the day when the phone does not ring, when the bitch finally curls up alone in her dark house and dies.
Amber Decker is an undergraduate from West Virginia, USA majoring in English literature. Her most recent book of poems is Lost Girls. She blogs semi-regularly at http://roughverse.wordpress.
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