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Literature
Alzheimer's
His house is made of crumbling slats
of rotted knotted oak
peeling paint
and weakened joints.
The wind blows unfettered
through unshuttered apertures
dragging fresh sunlight in
and memories away.
Even on the clearest days
he visits the front porch
less and less often.
He prefers to explore
those rooms further in
where tide and time have yet to reach.
Literature
The Seizures
Skye has a seizure at dusk, and we're alone.
I hold her wrists
down
so she doesn't fall from her hospital bed,
turn her on her side and hit the nurse distress button
screaming for someone to help us.
She's shaking uncontrollably,
and the bracelets on her wrists move
in a discordant lullaby.
Then it's over,
and the nurses come and check her pulse,
her blood oxygen, her motor control.
She can talk again, but she's confused
and doesn't know who she is.
She can't move her legs.
I stroke her hair and tell her where she is,
help her slow her breathing, and help the nurses.
Our roommates return, and she starts seizin
Literature
I Took To Howling With You
I was shy at first, timid in my dealings,
I laced the trap against my throat,
sang sparing, tip-toed
around your poems.
The tone, the slow vibrating
from the shoots of my shoulders
to the gleam of polished talons,
it purred around inside me.
Oh the song, Coyote,
the same resigned call, it
paled before you, swallowed down its insides,
wept.
I took your little hand in my big hand,
flew out towards Crow, and for a while
My Love, there were poems
and the world was enough.
I took to howling with you,
down from the branches, safe
womb of the tree, I spread
dirt between my toes, sang happy,
sang the song of free,
your wild howl
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