The Disease
In the same way an unsuspecting people is robbed of its freedom, my mother’s abilities are quietly and systematically being withdrawn, making her a servant to a cause not her own.

The flour in her kitchen
is several years old,
the sugar waits in clumps.

Old spices, stale cupboards,
packages and cans
better left closed,
rows of unlit shelves.

None of them noticed,
none of them seen,
instead, the pattern
in her counter
must be cleaned.

But it does not yield,
after an hour,
it does not yield.

Once explained,
soon forgotten,
she moves on
to other things.

The disease has its way. The people wallow blind in its destruction. Even on their knees, they think they are free.

September 7, 2006







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