ALICE MILLER
Remembering Dementia
Listen, woolly afternoon, you’ve
wound around our fingers once
wound around our fingers once
too often. I’ve tried to unravel her
strands of words, but her stories rarely verge
strands of words, but her stories rarely verge
on solvable, instead mingling
timelines, places and languages
timelines, places and languages
in some beautiful
but useless
but useless
confusion.
*
I try to follow one track
of story, only to discover
of story, only to discover
knitting or biscuits – and she never knitted
though they’d tell her
though they’d tell her
it befit her; a trap
for the elderly she’d
for the elderly she’d
eagerly evaded.
*
Well. When she’s quicker and
looser I may try
looser I may try
and ask her,
but it’s all tangled now,
but it’s all tangled now,
she says of her head,
before her tongue is tied.
before her tongue is tied.
April 7
A woman stands
at the kitchen window, stares blurrily
at the kitchen window, stares blurrily
into your small world. You are content
to be clanging
to be clanging
music, smoking barbeques,
recycling bins brimming
recycling bins brimming
with glass. They are private
school uniforms, dishes and bedtimes,
school uniforms, dishes and bedtimes,
a steaming resentment
from the balcony. They can’t tell
from the balcony. They can’t tell
you just talked to your mother, whose
speech was cluttered
speech was cluttered
and undecided. You broke in
and spoke for her, covering up
and spoke for her, covering up
the glaring, the scared
deficiencies. Your mother couldn’t know
deficiencies. Your mother couldn’t know
you’d just left
his place, his mouth
his place, his mouth
a ghastly tied up
red. That he’d stooped
red. That he’d stooped
to say that you were lovely, only
to state that this was it. That your hands
to state that this was it. That your hands
had hacked your speech, in the vain
hope of stopping
hope of stopping
words. Perhaps he’d known
you’d bruised your skin, that you
you’d bruised your skin, that you
looked for him in each
passing vehicle.
passing vehicle.
*
And later, tracing the spine
of the hills, you see the view
of the hills, you see the view
is all over again. As you watch
you nod obediently,
you nod obediently,
like when you’re expected
to understand. You’re only
to understand. You’re only
so many people
deep. But how to wait,
deep. But how to wait,
and watch the water?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alice Miller has just completed her MA in Creative Writing at the IIML. She has a History Honours degree (and an overabundance of ideas for what might come next). She lives in Wellington.