Pines and eucalyptus frame
the arching acres beyond this yard,
where wild turkey parade
along the highway
and horses graze the apple meadow.
You brought me here.

Last year you won a Tor House Prize
and we drove to the house
that Jeffers built with boulders pulled
from the sea. We squeezed
through passageways out to a ledge
above the pounding Pacific in Carmel.
You won. Not me.
Our daughter snapped, It’s Dad’s turn.

The Buddha practiced Mudita,
rejoicing in the joy of others.
I wanted to hold you up like a flame
for everyone to see. It was that poem –
where soldiers in your company
fed flutes and piccolos, your clarinet,
into a bonfire, their finale
when they stood down
from Viet Nam.

Now in this chilled March air we meditate
with a gathering of vets for peace.
Turkey vultures dip and glide
in the pasture, while song sparrows
trill across the groves. Because of you
I am here, writing.

---

"It’s not dead," you insisted,
rushing into the living room.
From our porch we could hear the possum
crying like a child, rasping for breath.
We saw that little body heave,
tail flipping like a whip
directly in front of our house.

Sitting upright at first, the possum
licked its injured paw.
You approached from behind, slowly,
to encourage it out of the street.
But the possum hissed and you retreated.
Then came that icy, shattering crunch.
The second hit.

You kept crying, so I held your hand
as we watched car after car
drive over, wheel after wheel miss.
The animal hospital told us
to cover the possum with a towel,
shovel it into a box and bring it in,
careful not to get bitten
because possums carry rabies.

We could not get near.
After you left a message
with the animal rescue mission,
I sent you to your room
and told you to forget the possum.

Later I returned to the porch
secretly hoping to find the possum dead,
so I could tell myself it was over
and go to sleep. But the possum moaned,
lifted its chest and flipped its tail.

By morning nothing was left
but a streak of blood.
The woman at the rescue mission
said they didn’t keep track of possums,
but someone probably picked it up,
helped it or put it to sleep.

After all, it was just a possum
with pink, searchlight eyes,
a round white belly and a stick of a tail.
A scavenger, curious about cities.
A quiet wanderer
we were not meant to help,
stepping into a night
you were not supposed to witness.
Belonging to no one.

from The Common Fire (Red Hen Press)
first published in The Lucid Stone (2001) and Heart Flip (2001)