My Mother’s Bones

She is, after all, a woman,
not quite avian or egg wobbling
at the edge of a counter. No
need to say her bones once
carried me, hauled baskets
of laundry, bushels of zucchini
she coaxed from black loam.
No need to mention she was bent
by a fender, condemned never
to walk again. Walked again.
Even now what suspends her above
stairs and sidewalks is not scaffolding
but what has always been,
compacted, fired, metamorphosed
insistent as stone. No need
to speak of its quarry or its chisel.

Hindsight

--A westbound freight train with 4 locomotives and 69 cars
struck a person on the tracks at 12:07 a.m. (Rochester NY June 6, 2018)

Velocity and steel scream
as you plow through the night
of me, strike darkness into darkness.

How did I not see it coming?
A week before, I called you
while jogging down Kalakaua Avenue
in the early morning glare.

You said you found your purpose--
lending your giant ears and belly
laugh to the troubled kids at work.
They looked up to all 6’ 4” of you
for what you’d made it through.

On June 6th, 12:03 am, you posted,
“ALL LOVE, XOXO.”
You were already walking
down the middle of the tracks.

It took days to identify your body.
Even I was no longer sure
who you were.

I retrace that morning jog, phone call,
look back for what was already in motion.
All I see is light.

Cathy Carlisi’s co-authored book, The Conversation Turned to Wide-Mouthed Jars, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Her poetry has been published in The Atlanta Review, Prairie Schooner, Southern Poetry Review, Mid-American Review, Greensboro Review and others. She currently serves as President of the Americas for BrightHouse, a creative consultancy dedicated to positive social impact through purpose.