Nadia Wolnisty
Possums
This is a poem for the possum
who visited my porch the night
I tested positive on a pregnancy test.
You had put popcorn out on the porch,
hoping one would come.
I was doing dishes in the sink.
Through the glass door you saw
a mound bristling like pubic hair
after a haphazard trim. You said It worked!
Hello, wild stranger with little hands.
I will share my porch with you.
And the next day, after a few
mornings of nausea and achy breasts, I bought
an energy drink, a pack of smokes
to calm my nerves and a pink pregnancy test.
It was an either/or situation. I went to a stall
at work and waited. Of course,
it feels stupid to regard seeing possums
as miraculous when it is in fact mundane. They are
common enough in a suburb in Texas for all
their strangeness. Only
a minute later, the test knew, and
so did I. A little gasp and nervous laugh.
I knew then that I was pouched
animal, and I threw away the pack
of cigarettes in the bin made
for tampons and other things I would
no longer need. I guess I could
have given them to a friend, but I
felt I could only carry one. And then
the whole week of telling you, calling
doctor’s offices, and eating lots
of food. Everything except for Gatorade
tasted strange—the skins of fried chicken
gone to insect wing, insides hearty grub.
But this is not a poem for what happened.
No one wants to hear about something so mundane.
This is a poem for possums,
because I don’t know any poems for rodential snouts,
ground ghosts the shape of tubes,
whose existence is confirmed
by looking through a window.
This is a poem for possums.
This poem is lumpy
and not for the light of day.
But I made it.
This is something that I made.
Because only a week later,
it was much too cold for possums,
and I smoked the darkest cigarette.
I should be making popcorn, just in case,
but I had to give a reason
for why my chest feels full of teeth marks,
and why I shake so much.
who visited my porch the night
I tested positive on a pregnancy test.
You had put popcorn out on the porch,
hoping one would come.
I was doing dishes in the sink.
Through the glass door you saw
a mound bristling like pubic hair
after a haphazard trim. You said It worked!
Hello, wild stranger with little hands.
I will share my porch with you.
And the next day, after a few
mornings of nausea and achy breasts, I bought
an energy drink, a pack of smokes
to calm my nerves and a pink pregnancy test.
It was an either/or situation. I went to a stall
at work and waited. Of course,
it feels stupid to regard seeing possums
as miraculous when it is in fact mundane. They are
common enough in a suburb in Texas for all
their strangeness. Only
a minute later, the test knew, and
so did I. A little gasp and nervous laugh.
I knew then that I was pouched
animal, and I threw away the pack
of cigarettes in the bin made
for tampons and other things I would
no longer need. I guess I could
have given them to a friend, but I
felt I could only carry one. And then
the whole week of telling you, calling
doctor’s offices, and eating lots
of food. Everything except for Gatorade
tasted strange—the skins of fried chicken
gone to insect wing, insides hearty grub.
But this is not a poem for what happened.
No one wants to hear about something so mundane.
This is a poem for possums,
because I don’t know any poems for rodential snouts,
ground ghosts the shape of tubes,
whose existence is confirmed
by looking through a window.
This is a poem for possums.
This poem is lumpy
and not for the light of day.
But I made it.
This is something that I made.
Because only a week later,
it was much too cold for possums,
and I smoked the darkest cigarette.
I should be making popcorn, just in case,
but I had to give a reason
for why my chest feels full of teeth marks,
and why I shake so much.
Commentary
Nadia on " Possums":
This poem is vulnerable in a way I’m not used to being—which is saying something, considering my first chapbook was about rape. Perhaps this is because the loss is somewhat new (2020 is a heck of a year) but also because it is not something talked about. I lost something that wasn’t quite there to begin with. That was the loneliest I’ve ever felt.
I am the editor in chief of Thimble Lit Mag—a poetry journal dedicated to the notion of shelter. Poetry can be a small shelter for hurts to go. Poetry can be a small home, and homes are meant to be shared. So, if you’ve gone through something like this, I hope this poem helps you feel less alone.
Confession: I have written collections of poems in prose then inserted line-breaks afterwards. Don’t worry about it! It’s fine! But for “Possums” I did not. I took care with enjambment. Before the possum’s arrival, all the lines are end-stopped. During the pregnancy, the lines share a porch. And afterward, it’s end-stopped again.
I do not know if this experience is end-stopped for me. Who can say what the body will do? But I’ve started to leave popcorn out again, just in case.
This poem is vulnerable in a way I’m not used to being—which is saying something, considering my first chapbook was about rape. Perhaps this is because the loss is somewhat new (2020 is a heck of a year) but also because it is not something talked about. I lost something that wasn’t quite there to begin with. That was the loneliest I’ve ever felt.
I am the editor in chief of Thimble Lit Mag—a poetry journal dedicated to the notion of shelter. Poetry can be a small shelter for hurts to go. Poetry can be a small home, and homes are meant to be shared. So, if you’ve gone through something like this, I hope this poem helps you feel less alone.
Confession: I have written collections of poems in prose then inserted line-breaks afterwards. Don’t worry about it! It’s fine! But for “Possums” I did not. I took care with enjambment. Before the possum’s arrival, all the lines are end-stopped. During the pregnancy, the lines share a porch. And afterward, it’s end-stopped again.
I do not know if this experience is end-stopped for me. Who can say what the body will do? But I’ve started to leave popcorn out again, just in case.
Biography
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Nadia Wolnisty is the founder and editor in chief of Thimble Literary Magazine. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Spry, SWWIM Every Day, Apogee, Penn Review, McNeese Review, Atlantis 2.0, SWWIM, Gyroscope, Bateau Press, SOFTBLOW, and others. They have chapbooks from Cringe-Worthy Poetry Collective, Dancing Girl Press, and a full-length from Spartan.
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