Mother’s little finger is fractured in the park

“How can we keep … from the harm this world can be [?]” – Ciaran Berry

She said The morning, it started out
so beautifully—
how she watered

the flowers in her new garden, pinks
and pitimini, poinsettia; then ate

her breakfast (from market she bought
round things for the New Year,

she said); did her dishes—
then decided to walk in the park

before going to church. But
the crowds, the swell of tourists

winding through the narrow sidewalks,
bent on having their fill of pleasure

before duty called again— And so the boy,
speeding on his bike and laughing

as he looked back over his shoulder
at his friends, did not see

her where she tried to cross the street—
And she held out her hand as if to ward off

a blow, frail shield before the body
made suddenly uncertain of its bearings—

Awaiting surgery, a wire to splice
the fragile bones back to themselves,

she sighs into the phone, into my ear—
Accident, who could have known

what this day brought to me? O
unforeseen that walks with and after

us, and almost as if from its own
impatience gets ahead and in the way—

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