I get lost
on my walk
to see you
in your lost
state. Boiled down
to a translucent film
at the bottom
of a pot, what’s left
will be our eyes
and our hands. They speak
a language
of truth.
Alzheimer’s
Surreal Ocean
Tide rises from all sides—this surround
won’t bring back my father’s words of advice.
In a dream, I refuse to walk along the granite bluff
with my sisters—this is no return to Ireland. This is
what gets made
up before dawn closer to the Mississippi
than any hint of salt. Pastels
on sleeves—watercolors in the sky—pollution
at dusk—can’t have a January
thaw without a frozen
plain. A surreal ocean
comes to mind.
Pons
Another cruel reminder, cut
across the cheek upon waking—she is powerless
over her dreams. All those words
he lost will not be retrieved
the way her unconscious mind plots
it. The medication she lost
is not hers to lose. If she could
control them, no kisses planted
with perfect choreography
could open any trap doors
to escape from the message:
not to be false.
Aphasic (Day 2,773)
Numb’s the word.
Just past summer
solstice, no rain, muck
blows off
as a dusty burst
of thoughts you may have—but
they will remain trapped
in a cephalic void. The conversation
is over.
I’m not ready.
My jaw aches
from clenching
teeth against the cruelty
of your disease. Look out,
I can’t predict when
or where I’ll bite.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 