These poems are not about "Alzheimers" as much as they are about loss. The more of this world I know, the more I seem to feel like I have lost something, but I don't know where to start looking, or even what I would look for..

methodically she marked the dark infancy
by secret moments
by what doors remained unfortunately opened
and by the number of pots that had to be hidden
                  under discarded coffee grounds
(their burned bottoms
    sooty black and mocking.)

soon she would forget that she was forgetting
and lunch, an unexpected event
would be ushered in always with applause
               and an ignorant grin.

the good thing about a lingering death
(they would think but not utter)
is that your glad when it's over,
glad for an absence of something besides a mind:
glad to forget vacancy.
glad to be gone.

The Following Poems Talk About "Mother". Please Note That My Mother Is Vital And Very Capable. Remember That Some Things That Are Written Are Simple Made Up. I Like To Put Myself In Places That I Am Not, And Then See What Happens. Some Of My Best Writings Are Lies!
"What Mother Needs"
She always told you
"All I need is a room to sew."
and then M.C.D. took her hands,
stroke: her eyes.
       From then what sewing she did was lamenting,
   halting, labored.
"Remember," she would say, "I've always
burned up pots on the stove. It's not an age thing, but
a personality trait."

And later when you lock your own keys
in the car;
the running car no doubt;
you hate her and love her at the same time,
for her view of genetics
and burning biscuits, and cakes, and chicken,
for anything susceptible to fire
and being walked away from and forgotten.