Bob Hicok
Alzheimer's

Chairs move by themselves, and books.
Grandchildren visit, stand
new and nameless, their faces’ puzzles
missing pieces. She’s like a fish 

in a deep ocean, its body made of light.
She floats through rooms, through
my eyes, an old woman bereft
of chronicle, the parable of her life.

And though she’s almost a child
there’s still blood between us;
I passed through her to arrive.
So I protect her from knives, 

stairs, from the street that calls
as rivers do, a summons to walk away, 
to follow. And dress her,
demonstrate how buttons work,

when she sometimes looks up
and says my name, the sound arriving
like the trill of a bird so rare
it’s rumored no longer to exist.