Whom the gods can’t break
they exile
He’s disappearing more each day, she says.
In the cradle of her arms
she strokes his face,
feeding spoons of memory to stall
the hooded stranger,
crooning melodies to lift the lidded eyes,
lead him to the dappled forest paths
they used to wander.
Sometimes when I phone
and she’s not home
a recording greets me,
something unerased,
a robust baritone:
I’m not here right now,
but hope to get back to you
soon as I return.
– Mara Levine
He stands before me every day and
I can’t tell who is here
I miss
who is absent
Here’s nothing of the lusty
red hot fury of concentration
steam and sweat of heavy work
No rush to do
only impatience
with an unfamiliar voice,
accent
question
printed sheet
painted symbol All seem threats
What hums in his chest?
What presses on his frowning brows?
What word grasps the wish
but comes out twisted?
What name lost and
lost again
has disappeared?
– Phyllis Hotch
It’s possible, she thinks,
as she turns the water on for her bath
wonders if today is the day she’ll begin –
to forget. Wonders when it began
for her mother, her grandmother.
She climbs into the tub. It’s possible – it will miss her.
She prays it misses her daughters. That merciless
memory thief. She’s seen first hand
how it takes and takes and takes
until all that’s left is one working heart,
locked inside a warm empty body
that’s forgotten how to die.
She lies back in the warm water,
tests her own memory with facts:
name, address, numbers, phone, pin,
her passwords. All still there.
A few words disappeared yesterday.
Most of the time she manages
to ignore this familial specter,
tries to live knowing life is uncertain
for everyone, makes deals –
with God, the devil, herself.
The water cools as she contemplates her future,
the ifs and whats, the when and how.
She thinks she would want to end it early,
but how soon into the forgetting?
She knows she doesn’t want to travel far
down that tunnel losing the past in the dark,
the present in the flit of a butterfly’s wing.
Reminds herself to save her sleeping pills
except – she’ll never remember where they are,
supposes she’ll have forgotten
why she ever wanted them.
She talks to her reflection in the mirror
as she dries herself, reports the news this morning,
about the test that can predict whether –
or not she’s on the forgetting track.
She doesn’t want to know.
Perhaps one day they’ll discover a cure.
In the meantime, she’ll avoid aluminum,
do crossword puzzles, take vitamins, herbs, hormones,
do yoga, acupuncture, laugh often.
Today she decides to write a poem,
says you never know which one will be
my last. Writes: It’s possible, she thinks…
– Diane Buchanan
Our mother died six years
Before she died.
They first called it a psychotic break – a transitory problem;
But I believe it was
A fracturing . . .
Of thought from word,
Of soul from body.
Later, they called it dementia – hopeless and permanent;
But wasn’t it really
A profound withdrawing . . .
From a reality too painful to endure?
Transparent boundaries between her worlds
Became more permeable;
Rivers of words flowed endlessly from
The clouded pool of her mind,
Clearing now and then to show us
Momentary glimpses of who she had been . . .
“Don’t ever bring me flowers again,
They’re not practical.”
Alternating with prophetic glimpses of her future . . .
“When can I go home?
I’m ready to go home.”
Finally, we called the priest – I’m not sure why;
He did what priests do . . .
Whispered the words,
Spread the oil,
Made the sign.
Her last breath was anti-climax,
Our eyes were dry.
– Patricia A Cummings
Yesterday you were quietly setting me right
My friend and my lover my wife and my light
You were comfort and ease
You were laughter and tease
You were memories of
All the joy and the love
Once a fire then a glow
That continued to grow
Till a part of you left
And I lost you
Each morning I eagerly look in your eyes
But the spark that I hope for is gone and it lies
In some far away place where I cannot go
And it’s then that I know
That I’ve lost you
You were comfort and ease
You were laughter and tease
You were memories of
All the joy and the love
Once a fire then a glow
That continued to grow
Till a part of you left and I lost you.
– Herb Stewart
“She was nothing when she died. She had no personality, no capacity to speak.”
(Widower, on his wife’s six years’ terminal illness).
“. . . a self, another brightly wrought illusion”
(lan McEwan, Saturday, 2005).
Yes, “nothing” is possible. Once
she lived, no doubt, as if
it were not – at least for her:
others’ fate as strange as myths
to all who still act, think, live.
And what depths had he touched,
who shared her bed to the end,
propped by no “brightly wrought illusion”
or deceit of change, to say at last
“she was nothing” – a blasphemy
to some, or a brave truth . . .
Dying, did her “soul” purified
float free, somehow capable
again of speech and knowledge?
Does that define the soul,
or is that, too, nothing –
vain symbol of self-belief?
– Michael Thorpe
