I'm tired like the undershirt dried on high heat, worn to fray around the collar
and worn while painting the wooden boat this summer in the basement that filled with acrid epoxy stench on the humid August night when nothing dried -- not even the sweat on our arms.
Today, some things are very hard. A number five on a card, a thank you note not written for the gift too generous for words, conversation, lessons to be planned, books to be read in order to keep just one running foot ahead of the bolder about to roar over me.
Is it forgivable to live unashamed of your dreadful, human self if your life is now solid and loving and full of entitled decency? Especially, if you are a possum who can play dead and can barely see, who can sniff out a lie, and find a family in the dark.
Lately Molly’s been busy doing possum-y things in the dark. Dark things in cities where people are dark and there are dark cars and strangers leave garbage next to Molly on the subway as if it is hers. Garbage should be explored in a possum-y way. Headlights beckon. My eyes look bright and surprising when you come up on them quickly in the dark.
Stay with me. I’m tired. I have questions.