Susan McMaster, from Crossing Arcs

Crossing Arcs

I am lost, Mother

in the spaces you leave behind

              I cannot even see

                      a shadow there to

                                                    follow

        I have no way to comfort you in the

        empty room                           

        your mind now is            

          doors and windows    

          shut 

  

          blinds hung

          closed

I don’t think I have Alzheimer’s.

My memory is my own and I’m

going to keep it.

                                                           

Refusing the Bait

Suddenly, over a supper

of haddock and greens.

“Why won’t you let me finish

what I’m saying?” she snaps at him.

“You act like I’m stupid and old.

“And you – you never listen!”

Why are you always telling me what to do?

I can look after myself !”

I’m stuck, fork in air,

mushroom dripping sauce.

“Of course you can,” he says.

“You tell her off. Your daughter’s

always been bossy.”

The arguments they’ve had

for so many years

about science and religion,

politics and art

are done. He no longer

leaps into the fray.

Refuses any bait.

Speaks as he does

to me, when I cry.

“I don’t want to go back,”

she says to him then.

“Don’t worry,” he tells her.

“You don’t have to leave.

Stay as long as you want.

There’s no rush at all.”

I had to get angry. There’s

anger and fear, one or the

other, and I choose anger.

Anger is what keeps you alive.

Skeletoning Down

What use is a label?

This season “Type 2,”

next “OCD” or “Alzheimer’s” –

all glowers to fill a garden

of named despair.

No animal would bother.

A dog struck by sugar shock

simply lies down,

a cat with growing cancer

creeps away mute.

Words birth guilt –

blame – remorse –

when all this really is

is one way to fall

leaf among leaves

skeletoning

down.

So they finally put a fancy

name onto something that we

considered to be just getting

old. Nuts to this. My mind is

not going to play games with me.

Who does it think it is?

    

Hands

She takes off her boots.

Coat still buttoned,

turns from the hall

into the apartment

she left a week before.

Steps through the arch

into the living room.

Her hands come together.

Fold around each other

as if against cold.

The couch is gone.

Her lamp.

Her chair.

The floor a mess

of movers’ tracks.

A few more steps.

She stops.

Bends her head

into my shoulder.

I put my arms around her –

her hands, between us,

still closed around something

no-one can hold.

                                               

           

Acceptance and loss. Holding on

to life and what it was.

True Reckoning

This wandering, where she hits

the walls of her room –

north not where it should be,

sun gone from windows

that used to be filled.

Her square’s moved sideways

and halfway around.

How can I turn this space

to face into summer –

towards the homes she knew,

where north was straight ahead,

east was morning,

west afternoon,

and south what held

when all else dimmed?

In February shade

as I close the door behind me,

I leave her askew,

triangulated into a corner

at the back of a crooked building

that can’t be understood

skidding out of control

as the map folds up

to a darkened point.         

What does it feel like? Pods.

Skyhooks. Parachutes suspended

between sky and earth. Like I’m

in a space station detached from

everything and all the memories

are little threads trying to bring

me back.

Looking behind the Words

Crosswords and cyberquotes

consume her mornings.

Mornings too hungry without that meal.

Small leaps, small successes

are snacks and sustenance

against the hollow

that sucks the words away.

She looks up. “Hi –

What could this be –

nine letters – begins

and ends with ‘t’.

Boisterous, overbearing,

a virago, a shrew – ”

“Termagant?” I ask.

She grins. “That’s me.”

If I must live husked like a nut,

dammit you’ll hear me rattle and

shake in my shell!

From Crossing Arcs: Alzheimer’s, my mother, and me (Black Moss 2009-10). Photos by Marty Gervais. Verbatim quotes from my mother Betty Page. All material © the creators, published with permission. Crossing Arcs was shortlisted for the Archibald Lampman, Acorn-Plantos People’s Poetry, and Ottawa Book awards. Susan McMaster is author or editor of 20 books,  anthologies, and wordmusic recordings with First Draft, SugarBeat, and Geode Music & Poetry. McMaster is a former president of the League of Canadian Poets. <web.ncf.ca/smcmasterweb.ncf.ca/smcmaster>