Dementia

by Mark Katrinak

The grains of sand are trickling through the waist

of the hourglass, bottom heavy now,

too saturated with the past, each grain

a tear of grief that never registered.

Image credit: Leonie Zettl on Unsplash

How many weeks, how many months,

God, no... how many years like this?

Trash is piled three feet high, a urine stench

prolongs from room to room. A narrow isle

between what’s stacked, from living room

to kitchen, sofa to the fridge. When was

the last time someone came on by and knocked?

You had enough reserve of mind to not allow

someone into this gaseous labyrinth.

A mouse’s nest is buried in the red-

stained cushion of the worn mahogany

recliner. Crooked trails of scattered clothes

direct one up the stairs to who knows what.

Are you and Donna married? “Yes,

for thirty years.” A decade’s gone adrift,

a little boat at sea, a single oar,

no other boat but what has sailed

beyond the vanishing point,

perspective ever narrowing. We should

have knocked sooner, knocked sooner, sis.

In closets, clothes are tightly hung,

price tags attached to sleeves and hems,

prices we can’t afford, a wardrobe that would clothe

a gathering of daughters, girlfriends, too.

Were these a bargain then?  A mouse

runs down the stairs. We should have knocked,

we should, we should. We should have interfered.

***

Mark Katrinak

Mark Katrinak has a chapbook, “Blue Meridian,” forthcoming from Kelsay Books. He has had poems published in Bayou, Southwestern American Literature, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Lullwater Review, Pinyon, The Opiate, Pensive, Poetry for Mental Health, and other literary publications. Originally from Cleveland, Ohio, Mark is now a resident of Golden Valley, AZ. When not working for a mental health agency, he enjoys birds, cats, fine wine, and spending time with his family.