Remy Marsupial, by Roberta Feins

When his wife says goodnight, the minute
her bedroom door clicks shut, he opens the bottle, slops

amber brandy into a glass shaped like his father’s fist.
Opens the back door, invites them in –
he drinks with possums who tunnel up from the ground

to scavenge seed under the bird feeder.
Odd, taciturn, barely visible
except for their breath, they sit with him on the couch,

glumly watching reruns of black & white
1950’s sci-fi. By two AM

their red eyes glitter whenever the decent astronaut
is jumped by demons who should be green

but are a gray only slightly darker than the sky.
Glancing at their profiles, their teeth are sharper

than he remembers. But they are company, who,
as the night gets drunker, seem to forget their hunger,

and for the briefest moment are his beautiful defenders.

***

About this Poem: I wrote “Remy Marsupial” as a way of talking about addiction.  I had been trying to describe someone who feels most alive at night, drinking, watching old sci-fi movies and pretending there is nothing wrong.  The solution I found was envisioning alcohol as if it were creatures, ones that could be mistaken for friends, but who really threaten. The title is a play on the brandy “Remy Martin.”

Roberta Feins received her MFA in poetry in 2007 from New England College. Her poems have been published in Five AM, Antioch Review, The Cortland Review and The Gettysburg Review, among others.  Her chapbook Something Like a River, was published by Moon Path Press in 2013.  Roberta edits the e-zine Switched On Gutenberg.

2016_03_Roberta

Roberta Feins

 

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