Alzheimer's
Chairs move by themselves,
and books.
Grandchildren visit, stand
new and nameless, their faces'
puzzles
missing pieces. She's like a fish
in deep ocean, its body made
of light.
She floats through rooms, through
my eyes, an old woman
bereft
of chronicle, the parable of her life.
And though she's almost a
child
there's still blood between us:
I passed through her to
arrive.
So I protect her from knives,
stairs, from the street that
calls
as rivers do, a summons to walk away,
to follow. And dress
her,
demonstrate how buttons work,
when she sometimes looks
up
and says my name, the sound arriving
like the trill of a bird so
rare
it's rumored no longer to exist.
~ Bob Hicok ~
(Plus
Shipping)
(left button to play, right button
to save)
