like death
parchment shade of yourself
suspended
over winter water
— leering mirror
waggly-lined mockery of the real —
bent ever closer
to the purr of cold,
solitary
unclothed
but for frost’s wrap,
rooted in a clay famine
thick with indifference,
then
you are caregiver.
Warmth and shelter of Denial
hoarded by others,
yours the endless winter of dementia
never
never
spring.
January 27, 2016 at 8:05 pm
wonderful. And bleak.
January 27, 2016 at 10:09 pm
Thank you, Shirah. I’m so glad you responded to it and weren’t put off by the bleakness, which was really deep in me and I had to try to find words for it. Caregiving resurfaced this morning as sort of an unfinished portrait — you know how that is — and I had to work on it again.
January 28, 2016 at 1:37 am
Your words hit close to home. So close.
January 28, 2016 at 9:17 am
It’s no exaggeration , is it? And I’m so sorry.