Disintegration of Memory
I put my key into the ignition,
And cannot remember what comes next.
I return to the house, retrace my steps,
Replace consciousness with rote.
“How do you like your Grandma?” she would
One foot pointed in front of the other,
Arms akimbo, head thrown back.
“ Not very much,” my sister always answered,
Loud enough for just me,
Then we'd heap praises on her dyed head.
When I saw her last,
She posed the same question to the nurse,
To the roommate's son, to the woman in the cafeteria.
“ Old-timer's” is the medical term
My mother uses to describe
Carrying around a doll named Baby,
Function and identity fused in a plastic face.
My sister whistles in the graveyard,
Pretends it's eccentricity, says,
“I'll meet new people everyday.”
I promise to prop a tiara on her head and light her
But, I don't visit Abishag.
I shift the automatic transmission into drive
And see my finger is bluish-purple.
That must have hurt, I think, after I notice it.