A VISIT TO MOTHER-IN-LAW

A person needs just a little space to live.

Her tiny room is dark, lifeless.

Pictures “adorn” every inch of wall.

Jesus bleeds.

His mother and the saints suffer.

“There’s nothing good to eat here.  Look at that ugly thing they brought me.” 

She points to an innocent piece of chocolate cake,

that I’d gladly devour if I lived in her space,

I think.

I let her believe I’m kind to bring her homemade fish.

It makes her happier than to know what is

fast food – she never approved.

And why does she eat corn flakes with every meal?

Because she can

still possess feedom’s ghost.

Only ghosts willingly see her now.

Really.

Willingly.

Obligation mixed with love makes me visit.

But truth is truth,

most times, I’d rather not go.

Not because I fear the ghosts,

or Jesus’ painfully tortured look,

his mother’s and other martyrs’

portrayal of absence – no heaven on earth.

But I must fear… something.

There is certainty in her eyes.

She gives me five little packets of graham crackers she’d saved,

and a little bracelet someone made.

I leave contemplating her little place,

knowing

to live or die, 

we need just a little space.

(Submitted to Dverse Poets, open link night.)

Passive Selections

I watch you as you enjoy a home-cooked meal, then
talk about the songs outside your room.  All night
they played, you say.  I smile, glad that it's  music
you're hearing and not the demon voices convinced
of enemies prowling, creeping in crevices of your soul.
But patiently they wait, then pounce from your lips
unexpected and I wonder if you created them,
or if by chance they're just offspring
made by the involuntary twisting
of wires that are too old.

There's nothing you control, you say, and stay
wrapped in a blanket of death's yearning,
immobile, stale, content with misery.
Is it life you grieve? so much
that it's become invisible from disregard
while still throbbing, running through your veins,
unseen, devalued but ready to energize
movement, joy, being
any moment
you chose.

(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)

(Those of you who have followed this blog, may remember that mother-in-law is in a nursing home.  Dementia often leads her to experience delusions and even hallucinations.  It's nice when she hears music, but dreadful when she profanely and maliciously talks of her new roommate and other residents.  She is unhappy, depressed which does little to reduce my occasional feelings of guilt for having her there.


Mother-in-law rarely leaves her darkened room.  She has all her meals brought to her and  stays in bed most of the time.  She did have a nice time when she visited me and the family during a recent reunion.  But she refuses to engage in any activities at the nursing home and has rejected the friendship offered by some very nice ladies.  She has a right to chose, to self-determine her life.  Still, I wish she would chose happiness.)

OLD FORGOTTEN CHALICE

Long ago, from your sacred nectar we drank

your life emptying its love upon us.

Today, narration of joys and sorrows

time indelibly marks its predictions

on your facade engraved...

fading.

Shadows prolong your stay.

Forgotten by those that mattered

you pray for darkness to end

this confusing state.

Alone you await your fate.

No merit to give or receive.

Your presence no longer cherished.

Perceiving your own corrosion

you hope to soon see the hand

that will mercifully discard you.

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This is very sad. Mother-in-law (90 years old), whose favorite grandchildren rarely call or visit, spends much of her time sleeping then complaining of ailments.



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Thank you once again Willow for hosting these wonderful magpie tales. Visit her site to make your own entry or to read some creative and thought provoking writing.