Grief Is in the Seconds

A car hit a possum, an hour or two before your last beat.
There was light rain, the glisten of a street light, the beat

of right foot against brake pedal, and the sound—a gut punch.
Its blood was crimson, one shade towards orange from beet.

With you, it was different, more inaction than the opposite.
Your motions ceased, your heart stopped, the bass missed its beat.

And that was all. It was just a slip, a simple fall.
That night’s breeze caught the screen door, its beat

against the frame was anticipated. The heavy bloom
of a red camellia dropping to the ground. The fan blades beating

the humid air on the front porch. Gone is a better word than dead;
you are both, but the grief is in the seconds’ beat,

the fan’s wheeze. Tock after tick, turn after turn, they both go on.
The poet goes on. You don’t. All is still where your pulse once beat.