Here's what I could not
say to you

as you lie in urine stenched
sheets, your arm jerking straight ahead,
precise as your Underwood typewriter,
a strange sort of Morse code

your head melted to
the pillow, mouth open
in a gaping grin,
teeth forgotten on
the bedside table
unable to utter any harsh words.

Still strong,
you defy death,
your neck a band of tough cords.

Beds three by three
like Girl Scout camp
other tentmates
curled into balls,
fists into balls
whisper throughout the night.
"yoo hoo"
"yoo hoo"
softly sings from the Alzheimer's patient
in the bed across from you.

Your name on
everything, pale
mauve pink cups, a bedpan,
Ann Stalzer scrawled
in yellow masking tape
a teddy bear by your side.

You would hate the view.

Your eyes blink,
curve like brown almonds,
fold over themselves, raw.

Are you dreaming now?
Do you see me now?

I can't find words to say
the only sound my scratched sobs
hot in the back of my throat.

You are the mother
of the father who gave
me life. My father
with a heart bigger than Texas.

My heart is saving up room
for you
and everything left unsaid.

This poem originally published in the October 2003 edition of SaucyVox(Dot)com.