The doors swing open
Hospital disinfectant clogging your pores
The endless shuffling of paper slippers
One room is not empty:
one room, on Valentine’s Day,
and she has Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s.
She’s gone with her motor skills
She’s gone in the eyes
In the memory cortex nervous center
She’s choking on water
She’s choking on air
She’s choking in her sleep
She’ll be dead by early tomorrow morning, when the
sun comes up to tell a teenager she’s gone.
Don’t forget the Heimlich Maneuver.
No last words. She’ll slip away,
mosaic of the past, present, and future.
The sun shines and the bees pollinate, and what can you do,
at any age, but leave the hospital and choke down all of this,
and never speak of it again: go to sleep, and remember how she went,
and that’s that.
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