For My Dad

To the opossum

in the middle of the left lane:

I’m sorry.

Open, broken, wasted

your vertebrae tail a slick reminder

of late June

of tree branches that cast shadows

and the noises at night we don’t understand.

I’m sure your children are safe in tree hollows,

using gnarled knots for pillows

and wearing matching stripes to sleep.

Your mate has almost definitely but maybe not moved on,

perhaps a fellow from the swamps

who squeals with some sort of delight when she swings

from limb

to limb.

I know this because I saw you,

all of you--

Pink clouds amongst a candy wrapper,

barren veins and bone chips,

glassy eyes that confused sunrise for a sunset--

and I kept running, sneakers supporting the arches of my feet,

because had I stopped

I would have tried to sew you back together.