Meg McKeon

Opossum Theory

I have decided
to invite each
madly drawn
animal out
of my bathroom
into my stitched
& worn living
to jump with me
into a pit full
of soupy water
of floating limbs.
This is when risk
feels safest:
when the dead
bob buoyant
in a living room.
When a hot air
balloon carries
its passengers
past a certain
altitude, the first
person asked
to loosen sandbags
to test the lungs
is the smallest.
When the apparatus
touches down
elegantly, a deflated
skin on a field,
people will ask
But where are
the flyers? People
will clutch their mouths
to hold in the sharply
drawn air. No one tells you
about how gingerly we remove
possums, porcelain-like in their feigning,
dumping them on the other side of the fence.
How they wait exactly three minutes before clicking
down an alley way, before moving so slowly no one ever knew they were there.



























Meg McKeon is a graduate of the New Writers Project MFA at the University of Texas at Austin. Her poems have appeared, or, are forthcoming in: LEVELER; smoking glue gun; Forklift, Ohio; Blackbird; H_NGM_N; Spork Press; ILK Journal; and Ghost Town, among others. She lives in Austin, TX.