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Ruth O'Callaghan

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Entering Alzheimers

 

From the far shore where the herring gulls bred
he turned without understanding their cries
to search for something that he remembered.

Like the plaiting of grasses for their bed
as they watched the rain skeining the skies
from the far shore where the herring gulls bred.

The dread in her eyes as their bodies, sated,
cooled in the night air. Now her face, misplaced, defies
his memory. Something that he remembered?

Thoughts that would not untangle, that fled
with the flash of fish silver-slipping by
from the far shore where the herring gulls bred.

When he tried to snare words, in their stead
came sounds without form, sounds that disguised
his search for something that he remembered.

Now, unclear, fearing that even when he is dead
memory, shape shifting, will not distinguish lies
from the far shore where the herring gulls bred
to search for something that he remembered.

 

Page(s) 35

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