I once read that mother possums
carry their babies in a pouch
and that if you ever run one over
or find one dead, you should always
check their stomach—just in case. I felt something
like regret reading that, thinking of both times
I’ve hit a possum with my car, wishing I had
pulled over, picked up the corpse with bare hands,
and used the light on my phone to guide me
as I pried open the fleshy pocket
for wriggling babies. As if my desire
to save something would have overthrown
my swelling comfort with what I’d just killed.
