By Mary Bowen
I put the grey fur on. Some folk say
just playin possum: no see the cling
from the weakest branch, hold
and sway, whimper and sweat.
Only a smudge in the dust too still,
with a silent body and a rat-like tail--
all too quiet not to be baby doll cries,
my voice box livin at the end of a string.
Mary Bowen is a Boston-based writer with a background in theater and film studies. Her film reviews have appeared in the journal Cineaste and her poetry in Seton Hill University's art and literary magazine Eye Contact.
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