A Possum Entering the Argument

We’re talking about

when we met

and you say

it was easier

to fall for me thinking

(I’ll remember

this pause)

it was likely I’d be

dead by now.

Talking. Falling.

Thinking. Waiting . . .

Have I

undone

what you’ve tried to do?

You say no.

You say the surprise

of still being

is something

being built—

the machine of our living,

this saltwork of luck,

stylish, safe,

comfortable and

unintended.

Meanwhile, I haven’t

had the opportunity

to tell you, but

our lovely little dog

has just killed

a possum.

Maybe it’s unfair,

a possum entering

the argument here.

But I lay it down

before us:

because an ugly

dying possum

played dead

and didn’t run,

its dubious cunning

was brought to an end

outside our door

by our brutal, beautiful

and very pleased

little dog.

So how do I say

that this is not

about death or sadness

or even whether

you really

first loved me

waiting, thinking

I’d be

dying young?

It’s just that

standing there

a few minutes ago

holding a dead possum

by its repellent

bony tail,

I was struck by how

eerily pleased I was

to be a spectator

to teeth, spit,

agony and claw,

feeling full of purpose,

thinking how different

in our adversaries

we are from possums.

We try love—

the fist of words,

their opening hand.

And whether we play

dead or alive,

our pain, the slow

circulation of happiness,

our salt and work,

the stubborn questions

we endlessly

give names to

haunt us with choice.

Copyright Credit: Tom Healy, “A Possum Entering the Argument” from What the Right Hand Knows. Copyright © 2009 by Tom Healy. Reprinted by permission of Four Way Books.

Source: What the Right Hand Knows (Four Way Books, 2009)