Zeynep Dide Cavus
Serenade for a Red-Eyed Possum in New England
the red-eyed possum disappears just as you reach for it.// you hold the piece of mohair-ish fur you managed to take from its head. the one that got away. you send love letters in possum-lish and toss them into the lake in miniature bottles. little did you know they would get smashed just because it’s winter and you’re smashing bottles against the cold ice. //you never see the possum again until it walks into the bar with a drummer late at night when you’re sipping your no-foam triple shot caramel drizzle blonde roast margarita. the possum and the drummer start dancing a ballet you remember watching when your mom had some sanity and your dad smoked cigars in the study. the drummer looks around anxiously in the middle of the ballet. he asks you if you could be their possum queen for the rest of the night. you try to say no thanks though but in the blink of an eye he has you twirling around yourself. you don’t know the steps, neither do they. the possum places a makeshift crown on your head with little animal bones and you think how considerate it is. //you worriedly realize you’re still in love with the possum but then you think how could you love someone if they’re a possum with blood red eyes? //you’re tired and you sit on an awfully inconvenient barstool. everything is everywhere in a sudden and they’re spinning like the sun spins around the earth. bloated as an ironing board. euphoric as a grieving mother. the world is upside down and you feel the dizziness getting to your head and you know it will kill you someday. the delirium has you now. hanging upside down, you smile and the possum smiles back.
Zeynep Dide Cavus (she/her) is an aspiring poet & fiction writer based in Istanbul. In her writing, she explores the hidden, the mythical, and the paradisiacal. Her previous work can be found in bloodbathhate magazine and The Hyacinth Review. When she is not writing, she can be found talking to a statue in the local museum.