Mother, After Alzheimer’s

By: Llewellyn McKernan

She smiles,

the glove of her face

breaks into a thousand wrinkles.

––––––––

She reaches

for my hand, the geography

of hers trembles, each

black vein blurs.

––––––––

She turns over

in bed, her body shedding like

a chrysalis a century

of memories, I cup each

white flake

––––––––

in my hands, like I do

hours filled to the brim

with her dirty plates, soiled

bedclothes, and body. Again &

––––––––

again, the Angel

of Death watches over

her shallow bubbled

breath, again &

again I gather up

from His dark corner

the feathers

He left, stuffing them

––––––––

in a pillow I sleep

on. I dream mother and I

hold onto the sides of a tiny

gold boat plowing

the seams of a silver

river.  Sometimes I

wake, and banked by its

––––––––

willows, I sit by her bed,

soothing away the pain

that, paler than her skin

or mine, rises in

a halo about her face

and shoulders.

“Mother, After Alzheimer’s" was first published in The Awakenings Review.

About the Author

Llewellyn McKernan has a Master's Degree in English from the University of Arkansas and a Master's Degree in Creative Writing from Brown University. She has had seven books of poems published for adults and four for children.  Her poems have been published in many journals, including Artemis, Kalliope, Nimrod, and others. They have been included in sixty anthologies, and they've won 107 regional, state, and national awards and prizes. Her writing mantra comes from the French novelist Colette's advice to a young writer: "Look long and hard at what gives you the most pleasure, but look even longer and harder at what gives you the most pain."