Three poems

Suspended

There are no clocks or calendars in the locked Alzheimer’s ward,
no notches, rings or pencil marks to chart the passage of time.
Nurses stop the motor of the world, dispense medicine, food,
wipe chins and asses on silent feet, propelled by a low, forgetful drone.

Occasionally, some old woman breaks the gauzy seal on her lips,
remembering a name, a place, the hint of rosewater on her wrists
the morning she was married, shrieks then forgets again.
No one reacts except the uninitiated families, not even the nurses.
Their sanity sticks out.

I have come where time plays hide-and-seek and the signs have all been repainted
to visit my grandfather, who hasn’t known my name for some time.
I will come just twice (though now I do not know it), flushed and embarrassed,
afraid of my own limp mortality, this glimpse of my future.

His blue sweatshirt, stained with lunch and confusion, needs changing.
My mother speaks first, “Nurse, will you please do…something…about this…”
The nurse is my mother’s smiling mirror, knowing
what we mean and the limits of medicine’s abilities.

I am wearing a watch today, self-consciously checking it.
Stay an hour, then drive back to Athens in silence,
to friends who will not ask me to speak, who will allow
all this to lie, heavy and dumb, a clock face with no hands.

My family is too sharp, too angular. Aware of our own secrets,
we can only speak of time before tornadoes and November.
Soon, we will do our violence to the calendar,
agreeing to speak of these things in whispers.
The nurse reminds us of the time.

It seems they’ve stopped only this spot on Earth from turning.
Outside it’s much later. My parents say goodbye to patients
who cannot recall meeting them just an hour ago.
They say it helps but won’t say who.

Misery is a spotlight hog; melancholy’s a kind of encore.
I button my coat, push open the door and
am overwhelmed by my mother’s steady hand.

Doctor, In Therapy Circle

you say “have the courage
to find your joy, your pain,
your love and your outrage
through candid discussion
in this nurturing place.”

The most attractive option
for a flock of Crazies,
therapy circle does have an
apparent good effect on most of these
men, though to me, it feels more than

a bit dated, a tad too mid-90s
New Man. Next we’ll revert
to our primitive animal spirits,
pass the Talking Stick and grunt,
point and howl around our camp fires.

What happened to the couch,
the stoic observer and the pills?
I want my therapy like a man:
simple, straightforward, no frills
or goddamn talking sticks. Just this once,
I want something like a man,

and it’s yanked from me, and I am
scolded, actually scolded, for selfishly
impeding the flow of positive energy
around the circle.
What a load of shit.

Nightmare
for Brad

Last night, you hung from the showerhead,
a handful of cravats wrapped round
your neck, black and red.

A frothy mucus mouth of tracks
oozed dumb, like tears
without the weeping knack.

Your face, a melting grocery bag,
an oil slick puddle, a virgin.
Your fishbelly sagged

like yesterday’s catch,
pudgy love barometer.
The forecast:

Romancing Jesus from the showerhead,
a scrotum dangle stone,
one third live, two thirds dead.