Zina Bethune, her spellbinding death, and the predestined fate of the opossum

                  the impact / part one:

02,12,2012.

the first car to strike her catapulted Zina Bethune

into the opposite lane of oncoming traffic.

an interlude:

putting myself at the wheel of the first car

I might’ve been distracted by reaching into

the sloppy glove compartment for something special.

suddenly there’s Zina in the road

bending over the lifeless form of a lonely opossum;

there's the sickening thud on contact, and Zina

goes flying through the air toward oncoming traffic

as the breaks, no more useful than an afterthought,

are screeching tires across the pavement.

It smells like the atmosphere’s burning.

It sounds like the atmosphere's in pain.

It looks like Hell on Earth in Southern California.

the impact / part two: 02,12,2012.

the second car in the oncoming lane hits her in mid-flight.

an interlude:

putting myself at the wheel of the second car,

I see her coming at me like the freeze-frame

advance in a Muybridge sequence. 

I might've recognized Zina, now tumbling through the air

as pretty as a whirling dervish after kicking back a few drinks.

then splat!, as she hits the windshield then rolls

beneath the wheels of the car, at which time I commence

to dragging her some 600 feet before I gain control of my machine

and my senses. but floating in space on her approach she looked

like an angel. I thought she’d be taking it easy, living the good life,

part-time hawking nonsensical fitness contraptions between innings,

making a bundle with each 15 second pitch.

Zina,–– look at you, tumbling through the air in slo-mo in So-Cal.

Zina,–– why did you cross a strip of asphalt God itself had determined

to be reserved for the death of opossums?