the slideshow has slowed to a standstill
one blurry frame remains
its content always disheveled
it is noted, the movement of drops
from melting snow outside
beyond there’s a lot of fixed shapes
it is four o’clock, the consensus claims
she wears a terri cloth robe stained
by breakfast in another dimension
clothes on her bed from out of the blue
are perplexing, where did they come from
for the fourth time, she asks me my name
what, I wonder, generates the beating of her heart
the holding of her skeletal frame
the lids of swollen eyes opened
in remote she drags
Kleenex across her brow
for the fifth time
she asks me where I live
the answer is distantly familiar
yes – she remembers that she lived there too
then hunkers down to deliver
the exact address
forgets what she is trying to remember
tells me that nothing is moving
except droplets of water
leaking between synapses
in a world that has been silenced
Deborah Golden Alecson
February 12, 2015
