What the Possum Knows
Don’t run.
Just blink.
Tilt your head like you’ve been through worse
(because you have).
Flatten your breath.
Let the chaos roll on by—
UPS trucks, Facebook feuds, sirens,
the cousin who sells essential oils
and won’t stop texting.
Play dead
long enough,
and someone else will carry
the emotional refrigerator
up the metaphorical stairs.
The possum knows
how to curl beneath porch steps
and wait for the Kentucky heat to pass.
Knows which roads stay quiet
and which dogs bark without bite.
She keeps her teeth sharp—
fifty in all—
not for biting, but for warning.
Sometimes the illusion
of ferocity
is enough to make the world
step back.
She hauls her children like burdens,
soft, clinging galaxies
on her back,
all mewling need and wild faith.
And still,
she walks.
She’s not scared.
She’s strategic.
She’s seen raccoons rise fast
and burn out faster.
Seen foxes get chased
for having too much flare.
She lies still
but knows the shape of every shadow.
And when the time is right—
when the headlights fade
and the world forgets to be cruel for one breath—
she gets up
without apology
and walks on
soft-footed, alive.
