She tries to memorize
The faces of each family member
Yet her memories
Have seemed to betray her
As she finds herself the subject
Of a past-progressive, simultaneous present-progressive tense:
‘She was talking to her dead sister;’ ‘She is looking at her reflect-
-ion. Caught in a run-on, rest of her life, sentence.
Language is supposed to unite us,
Yet it simply exiles her, as she is constantly at a loss
For words. She is desperately reaching to grasp the words that escape
Her. Attempting to wrap her speech bubble with heavy tape
In hopes that this time it will not deflate.
But this bubble seems to pop and I hate
To watch it burst before she can even blow into the wand
And have her speech float beyond
It cannot be seen from the outside in
So we are just as blind
As she is when her tears begin.
We promise her that everything will be okay
But to her everything no longer means anything.
How can we promise this when she no longer comprehends ‘okay;’
When she used to give us everything and we feel like we can’t change anything?
To her son, she has become his sun,
Yet we all orbit around her, attempting to keep at least one
Planet bright so that she can always shine.
Just as with Icarus, her role as the sun is a battle line
In which we want to soar to her to feel her warmth and comfort
Forgetting that in the sun’s warmth we are confront-
-ed with the intensity of the flames as our wings catch fire
And we plummet down the sky, caught in her hellfire.
At moments I see traces of her etched on her face,
A reminder that part of her remains
And when that trace begins to smudge or erase,
I remember that it is our job to wield the pen to retain
Her by filling in the blanks and connecting the dots
Because she is inside there itching to get out,
Wanting to untangle the knots in her thoughts.
A deep desire to breakout of this perpetual blackout.