Tony Steven Williams

Roadkill

Under a cold, clear morning sky, I walk to a brushtail possum on its back in dappled shade, stretched out like a rug throw. Surprisingly little blood. Eyes closed, mouth open, those sharp incisors—so typical of the species—on full display, the agony of impact preserved in place like a photo. Its lustrous tail is curled in a nautilus, hand-like claws stretched out on the asphalt as if in surrender. Tire-tread marks roll across its midriff, no coroner required for this demise. Thankfully, death must have been near instant. It was plainly run over during the night, probably scurrying to a tree on a car’s approach but fatally panicking or mistiming.

I can identify with my poor possum. I recall a preteen morning outside my childhood house, racing across our road to beat an upcoming car. My shoes slipped on a patch of ice, and I slid in front of the vehicle, teetering out of control like a novice skater. I always remember how close that hood was, and how I barely remained uprignt before I reached safety, resting awhile to catch my breath and ponder my existence.

by the cord of our life sometimes a scissors

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About the Author

Tony Steven Williams is a poet and short-fiction author from Canberra, Australia. He writes across many formats and genres, but in all his work the environment and the human condition are very important to him. His two published collections are Sun and Moon, Light and Dark (Ginninderra Press, 2018) and Reimmersion (Ginninderra Press, 2023).

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