The Vapors

Few write of the opossum
double-wombed and nomadic
there is little romance in telling its story.

The women, with their Victorian desires
do not swoon, fall victim to the vapors
at first glance of the bare tail dragged about
the rocks and garbage, babies dangling from the
white beast’s fur. Their fainting rooms
have all but crumbled, painted over
at very least.

But, once the books have fallen from atop heads;
graces excused,
the corsets cut loose, and the bourbon nursed,
the opossums don’t write much about the women
either.