by Lori Desrosiers
I am losing hold of my own sharp focus.
My usual ability to keep the balls in the air
wanes. I drop a couple here or there, run after them.
These small forgettings, blind spots
in my usual clear-sightedness frustrate and annoy me.
So I go along and make more lists than usual
then forget to look at them.
Visiting my mother reminds me
that she is on a slope now.
Some days are clearer than others.
She starts to tell a good story, then we come to a gap.
The year she took me to the opera, she has forgotten.
Some of the stories have changed dates, times.
People are switching roles, names.
The more I try to put aside the fear of my mother’s death,
the more I see her hand coming out my sleeve.