URSA MAJOR

Kristen Lenea Ryberg: from the Catalogue of Missing

~ Callisto is one of Jupiter’s not so dead moons, changed into a she-bear by Hera and placed among the stars. Also refers to a nice person who wouldn’t harm anyone.

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I walk a snow-banked path,
hear wet breath behind me.
My dream-bear is back
and gaining. I fold myself,
quick—into a crevice, 
she passes, trots heavily by,
tiny icicles click in her matted fur.

I run, ahead is a windowed building,
see crowds inside—I wave, shout,
move my hands along a frozen ivied wall
ripping, reveal a seam, it opens
to a grocery store. Safe, I grab a basket, 
head to produce,
handle a first, second, a third apple
and hear a familiar smoker’s voice,
one I’ve longed for, say
oh just take the first one Kris
you know you always go back to the first,
so indecisive! 
Laughing broadly, as she does
is Mom, whole—complete:
neat permed hair, ironed floral blouse, front-seamed poly pants,
white discount sneakers, her favorite knock-off
bag, with the slightly crooked gold emblem, 
clutched at her elbow.

I freeze, trembling. Mom, how can you be here?
I thought you were gone, I mean, did you die?
Head cocked, she studies me.
No silly, I’m right here, why would say that?

We have fun at the grocery
fun, wherever we go.

She pulls me into a hug.
I am held by her scent of nicotine and fabric softener.
Everything heavy flies out 
of the held places
where loss sits solid.

But this, is a confirmation. She lives!
I realize, her death, must have been
only a vivid dream of her in room 324,
stuffed bear Callisto by her side,
my head on her chest
as it rose and fell—then didn’t.
And the Paperwhites 
placed in her hands,
cut from my yard 
that morning.