Rank and acrid
The smell burned my nostrils
The flies circling and landing
In this grim theatre
Of chance and necessity

I reached down with a rubber glove
To grab the tail of the carcass
And the babies spilled out of her
Wriggling on the driveway

She must have died in childbirth
Her brood now struggling
To nurse or get back to the womb
One born still and curled
Another striking out on its own
Still pale, blind and mewling

What did the possum see the night before
When it looked at me with its small, black eyes,
Its rat-like tail and needle teeth?
“Nasty creatures, aren’t they?”
Said the neighbor, looking down over my shoulder.
“Better off dead.”