Darlingtonia desires an opossum as a pet;
an addition to her root cellar world.
A creature who will not disguise
its fangs, its pink-red beady eyes,
its sinister nocturnal intentions. Or else,
both of them hissing, she could rip out its heart
with her teeth; can it in coarse salt.
Gory little valentine preserved in brine.
Kind of like her face from all the crying.
D. looks like she could be twelve years old.
The kind of twelve year old who might dissect you
while you’re still alive. Replace your eyes
with colored marbles. Hold your heart
while it still beats. Taxiderm your holy body.
Maybe its prehensile tail would wrap around her wrist
like a grim bracelet, like a rival snake, then go slack.
Maybe saliva would foam around the mouth; a foul-smelling fluid
secrete itself into her hands. Maybe her venomous reaction
was a defense mechanism, but now there is no turning back. Playing possum,
playing dumb won’t save you. Your catatonic body will go cold
in the pan while she scrubs her tainted hands
prepares her silver tools, pets you and then digs in.
