Michael Loderstedt

Calling My Stepfather, One Year After Mom Died

I remember that hot, late-August afternoon
the thick air unmoving as the box slid
from the hearse, then dipped
precariously toward earth.
Is anyone lifting this thing?
I squinted at the men beside
and across who once knew her.
If this casket hit the ground
it would be on me. Ma
would be on me.

 I remember that mockingbird’s
crazy song, perched at the end row
of uniform white crosses
near the island road.
Going on and on and on
like some skipping needle
on a record player.

            When my stepfather answered
            I said, It’s Michael.
            Michael who?
            Judy’s oldest son. I just wanted
            to ask how you’re doing?
            Judy’s dead.
            I know Lester. I was at the funeral,
            do you remember?

 I thought about the last time
he called, saying, You’ve got
to come quick. A year ago,
a year ago barreling six hundred
miles to St. Helena without
stopping to eat, only to piss.
Arriving just hours after
she’d passed. Her body
gone, Lester bellowing
in the corner room
like an old horse.

At the funeral home
I kissed her cold forehead
slipped my middle-school
picture under her pillow. How
now to go on in this world?
Who will make the spaghetti sauce?
Will I remember the laurel bay leaf,
add the day-old coffee?
What measure will it take?

Michael Loderstedt was recently published in the NC Literary Review. He has also had poems published in a recent anthology entitled Neighborhood Voices (Literary Cleveland/Cleveland Public Library) and received an Ohio Arts Council Fellowship in Literature in 2020.