The Firepossum

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
inky bullets 

of hair, bones, claws, and teeth.

The Sunday Muse

29 thoughts on “The Firepossum

  1. I knew you would go the fancy pants way cause you are brilliant that way Qbit! I love how you took the images and rolled them together in a burrito of blazing glory. A story poem crafted as only you can do!! Funny how Firepossum rhymes with fireblossom, and she carries amazing owls on her back and feeds on poetry but spits out the best there is. I could be wrong, but that is my story and I am sticking to it. LOL

    Liked by 1 person

  2. But you can’t catch me, no baby you can’t catch me! A little disappointed that Firepossum didn’t wear scarlet begonias in her fur, but i still love this. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This is everything anyone could ask–or at least a firepossum-anyone–in way of a somewhat gnarly tribute. Your words are like graffiti of the soul and just as attention–grabbing. The last lines are gold. Laughing and crying can get all mixed up in those little half-digested pellets.

    Liked by 1 person

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