Self-Portraits as Flower Moon Opossum

 

When I meet a man,

I like to wait

7 years in my spathe

before blooming into

a corpse flower.

I stay open all night long

attracting whatever feeds

on dead animals or wants

to lay in me their eggs.

I kind of like the smell

I emit after a long day.

*

When the mother made

her satellite, it was a far

off mirror. Oh, how the light

filtered onto deep crevices

of cratered exterior.

   *        

As a child, she played possum,

pooling into the brown carpet

while making quiet hissing sounds.

She learned a lot about the military

this way. Now her body goes limp

at any perceived threat.

*

When the mudflats dry up,

when the gulls are displaced,

don’t blame the moon’s pull

for the saltwater rising.

*               

You start to resurrect the self

one meditation at a time,

dye your hair green and wear

tap shoes to the grocery store.

Why can’t lighthearted feel

as authentic as pain?

 

 

 

 

Kelly Lorraine Andrews is the author of four chapbooks, most recently My Body Is a Poem I Can’t Stop Writing (Porkbelly Press) and The Fear Archives (Two of Cups Press). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ninth Letter, DUETDUET, Ghost Proposal, and others. She edits the online journal Pretty Owl Poetry. More information about her publications and a slideshow of her cats can be found at kellyandrewspoetry.com