I look over and see a firepossum
trundling in from the storm –
eight baby owls on her back,
her crown of scarlet begonias.
She heads to a stack of journals,
feeds on the garbage I call poems.
Spits and hacks out most, but a greedy
smeck smeck smeck from time to time.
I say "Firepossum, play dead!"
and she filches around in her pouch –
has a bootleg tape of the Red Rocks tour –
Jerry and Co. jamming on Row Jimmy.
Wikipedea says the firepossum
is a mythic beast that rises in flames
like the Phoenix from ashes
of suburban shopping malls in Arizona.
The familiar of muses
who blow into the mouths of the owls
like feathered ocarinas
tuned to the key of see?
She climbs into the burning hearth,
disappears, leaving an empty room
and owl pellets – I hold in my hand
of hair, bones, claws, and teeth.
The Sunday Muse