Aunty and the Lost Caves
Aunty lost three pounds of memory,
it happened slowly, the clock on her mantle
ran faster, the rain began to fall slower.
Her cat was a stranger, then an ex-lover.
1300 grams of her vanished in slow motion.
The gray-matter remained
though it was hollowed out by blind angels;
in those dimly lit caves
flew two storks carrying two infants
forever now circling a cartoon pink sky.
At the age of eighty-two she demanded a dog.
We bought her an automated one
that moved and barked.
Eventually though its computer-chip brain failed,
aunty did not notice
she was by then very busy
discussing politics with Theodor Roosevelt.
I once asked her what he had to say?
She replied that he had confided:
‘the dead remember everything,’
that also seemed sad to me.
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