Ten Days After the Dobbs Decision
July 4th, 2022
The possum loped into view, pouch dragging slow
and heavy along the gravel, then stopped, rolled sideways,
lay there, stunned we thought, the way possums will
play dead, but after a while we weren’t so sure as she began
hauling her body further down the yard, faltering
then falling back against the stones again, weary, injured.
We could see the wound from our lawn chairs, her hindleg
bloodied, a coin of exposed flesh, flies at the gash, and
standing up to get a closer look, we saw another deeper
wound, a rupture running the length of her abdomen
and now her babies, Jesus, still moving, their small bodies
writhing inside the pouch, the dark purse of her skin.
We circled her, wondering who to call, this being a holiday,
offices closed, bottle rockets already finding their minor orbits
above the riverbank. And now the children had appeared,
hands bright with mason jars of fireflies, leaning with us
over the possum, asking will she be ok, and us nodding
as we searched our phones for numbers, my wife agitated,
googling wildlife hotlines, the animal in front of us,
fallen again, and panting on the ground, mouth open,
her teeth exposed, the babies visible, entangled inside
their mother’s damp fur. She must have heard our voices,
my wife said later, must have decided in that moment,
to pull herself out into the open, drag her body, her young,
down the bank, made that decision to reveal herself.
I remember how late it had become, fake stars
raining above our heads, and my wife hugging
her sister, unable to let her go, their bodies
silhouetted against the sheer, dark embankment.
