I do not think
my mind will hold

out much longer.
I forget basic

details of conversations. I
walk into the kitchen

and forget my reason
for having walked

into the kitchen. I can
discern now when

people are being
polite by not

mentioning the fact that
it is the third

or fourth time I've
told that story again.

I am thirty-four
years of age.

Thirty-four
years of age. Thirty-

four years
of age.

I love baseball perhaps
now more than

ever before. It
requires no

memory, no cohesive
narrative, each

moment when the
pitcher releases the

ball its own
microcosm—

its own tick
in an atemporal clockwork

flush with gears but
lacking cogs entirely,

a moment savored
and then quickly

forgotten, like
the taste of a

perfectly ripe summer
strawberry, smothered

by the sweltering haze
of a mid-July afternoon.

My love,
I am totally dependent  on you,
Do not force me,
Do not hurry me,
Expect less from me,
I am sick,
Let me rest.
Be there for me,
Kiss my cheek,
Love me,
Hold my hand.
I am muddled and lost,
I need you to manage my everyday tasks,
Tell me how, simply and clearly,
Give me a sense of dignity,
Help me to focus.
I may become aggressive  dear,
Distract me,
Lessen noise around me.
If I insist on wearing same clothes,
Buy some more pairs of the same.
I need you my love, more than ever,
I need your love and care.
Please don't be angry,
I know you have a lot on your plate,
It is difficult for you,
Please put up with my terrible
moods,
With you around I feel safe,
I feel happy and comfortable,
Be there for me till I am gone.

She used to call me by my sister's name,
I guess I can see how we look the same.
But now she looks at me with pain on her face
As she can't find a single name to place.
I'm almost afraid to see her again.
Forgetting me is no longer an "if" but a  "when".
I thought it would take longer but it's getting worse,
Mistaking her home for a hospital and me for a nurse.
I can see her eyes are full of fear.
She blinks. She's forgotten I'm here.

It's not the force of the blow
it's the force of the feeling,
the grit of her teeth
and the words that's she's snarling.
It's the loss of the mother
I remember her being,
it's the hate on her face
that leaves my head reeling.

It's not the force of the fist,
it's the fear that this
is all that is left
of the mother I miss.

I love my mother's joy:
fleeting yet intense in its feeling
as she finds and holds a life belt
only to lose it once more
and so turns to me for my hand.

Guests who came said my husband was acting,
Trying to make my life hard.
Ignorant were they.
How could a man act,
Who was not aware of his own
EXISTENCE.