suitcases, continued

3.You will make everything fitinto a finite space–the bails of haya container for grief– He stacks, you sweep–There is no sweeping, not tonight. This–is–called—-weepingwhere he lay sleepingor is it—–the falls, the canyon, your journey Stack and fill and stackthe walls emerge in her vision–you look away–find the bags–move to the next new moment.


I went to see some short films on Friday night, and one of them was about a woman’s experience of Alzhiemer’s. It was really interesting, and it reminded me to go back to this series of poems I started writing about my grandmother’s deteriorating dementia. She went through a period where everything she did centered…