It’s not that she doesn’t remember,
but mindslips of quick forgetting,
increasingly beset her
between rising and dressing,
finding and losing
wanting and getting.
Not finding pieces of the sky to fit
or knows the name for it.
Then saying ‘sky’
as if, triumphant, finds
the missing piece
The bigger picture on the lid eludes.
All now a shutting and opening
of slatted blinds
that words slip through –
words she once wore
and looked so good in pile
in corners of her mind.
Sometimes the face of someone dear
who is not who she thought is near
although they smile.
Nor knows the purpose of a blind,
or how to exit through a door.
Chrys Salt is an award-winning writer who has performed her poetry across the US, the UK, and in Europe. Her work has appeared in many journals, magazines, anthologies, plays, book and broadcast radio.