Rochelle Jewel Shapiro
DEMENS
the Latin root for dementia, the root making inroads
into my husband’s brain, feeding the gnarled branches / knife-edged leaves
that cast shade on the light that came from him and lit the one in me.
The day after I flung his ring at him 55 years ago, he drove
to my campus, stood on the highest step squinting in the June sun / spotted
me in the crush rushing here / there / took me in his arms like a rom-com.
Now his lids are half closed over his dulled eyes. “I didn’t know
there was a beach in this neighborhood,” he rasps, arms akimbo,
his slippered foot sweeping across our gray-rippled white kitchen tile.
Madness from Latin rabia / as if bitten / wode in Old English / wut in German
I have no words when I waken to him calling, “Let’s go for a walk,”
find him in his misbuttoned street clothes, his Yankee cap pulled low.
It’s 3:00 a.m. There are thunderclaps.
Dawn, when I take him for a walk, his eyes smile
at me with their former fire. Each step,
his safety pendant thumps
on his chest like a second heart.
Rochelle Jewel Shapiro has published in the New York Times Magazine and nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her short stories and poetry have been published widely. Her poetry collection, Death, Please Wait (Turtle Box Press) is available here from Itasca Books. She teaches writing at UCLA Extension.
rochellejshapiro.com @rjshapiro