She thinks we’re poisoning her
Through the vents in her room
Surrounded by Jesus and Mary
On the walls
On the dresser
In the books
Held together with elastic bands.

We appreciate
That she no longer writes
His words on the walls
Although it may only be
The wood panelling
That’s stopping her.

Her eyes are clouded
With age
Not rage
Her food must be softened
Whirred.

She wears my old training bras.
There is something weird about that.

No past referred to
It’s like she doesn’t have one.
But I know that it’s been hard
He sold mom’s snowsuit
For a drink.

She’s small and quiet
She eats consommé.
The humbugs are for others
But they don’t come.