Alzheimer's stole her life
like pages missing from a book,
tearing out chapters by the handful.
And when she died I couldn't cry
but I hung my head over the toilet
trying to gag up the missing pieces.
Anchored then in my rippled reflection
I looked my grip around the rim
and remembered all that she couldn't
Georgia rips and Kent cigarettes,
soap operas and back scratches,
my name and her mother's face.
I added her story to mine
and flushed away her sickness
with he tearless toilet water.
