Kait Leggett
Empty Morning
I didn’t witness the mother opossum struck
but found her—flesh unfurled, fur white
and delicate as bloodroot at dawn. Her lungs
were like ghastly balloons—full, again,
of nothing. And her pink children,
I found them stiff as uncooked rice.
Even still, they were hidden, lids sealed,
in their mother’s torn pouch. I sat with them
on the shoulder, where she’d found a place
peaceful enough for dying. I watched people
rush by in their cars, seeing only what
they wanted: the road opening before them,
sunrise saturating this new day like some gaping
thing needing to be filled.
Kait Leggett is a South Carolina native who recently relocated to Western North Carolina, where she lives with her fiancé, child, and an ever-growing collection of rescue animals. She holds an M.F.A. in poetry from the University of Oregon and a B.A. in English from the College of Charleston. Her work lives at the intersection of tenderness and the grotesque, drawing upon the landscapes and traditions of the American South to explore grief, caregiving, and the uneasy border between the wild and the domestic.