I am made for Alzheimer’s
practicing forgetting since I was a child.
A pink thread of mist frays into light,
the sky a sun ached blue-white
full of calories and miscellaneous detail.
Suddenly a great shiver of katydids
blows a wind across the edge of the yard.
I have a need to explain everything in color,
the mood swings and the warmth of scars,
a strain above the eyes, a roll of breath
across a shape of lips I am not allowed
to wander through. This is the way
to dementia, the play of remembering
what needs to be forgotten, what needs
to never be remembered, what needs
to settle into the swamplands
near the gathering of love chatter
from grass toads and large mouthed frogs.
Everything else dissolves unto frames,
a black and white Humphrey Bogart a moment
before he walks out on Katherine Hepburn
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