Anatomy of Grandfather, Dying of Dementia by Maya Renaud-Levine (16, New York)

/head/  
he tilts left in sideways curiosity
a doll, broken-necked and under bed
an urge to grab his ears and wrench them straight -
mother tells me i’ve yet to learn sympathy 

with every step, he jolts in jerky nods
unwittingly agreeing with my lambastment

---

/eyes/
sliced open, they would gush concrete 
he smears down one sticky eyelid - 
a desiccated wink 

mother & father & brother are charmed

mother told me he used to smoke a-pack-a-day 
ash stacked long, burnt tip drooping
leaking lines of purple smoke
leaking tears from stinging eyes

twenty years later the doctor said
your left eye or the cigarettes, man
the victory of a cold turkey quit -
deep bloated sacs of milk and cloud

/mouth/
mother tells me motor skills become a challenge
she laughs as she wipes away a line of drool
and tucks it in her lap like a secret 

sometimes, he bares his green-gray teeth
withered lips crimping upwards - i wonder
if this holds a smile or is simply
routine separation, flesh from bone 

at dinner, the gash grows wet and bloody
I push away my plate, thinking of stitches

mother tells me she learned four languages from that gaping tongue

/back/
on the couch, he seems to curve himself
around the empty -
preserving the spaces where the missing once lay

mother told me he used to dive beneath 
aqua waves - back rippling under 
assuredness of stroke
a confidence of body, tan and tall

/stomach/
i wonder if that’s where they go
thoughts of tying shoes & daughter’s face
knots of concepts through intestine tracks
scraped, excreted, flushed - fetid sewage

my own gut curdles pity and disgust
milk and lemon, cottage cheese

mother tells me you're carrying his genes, 
 - a quarter of body, a quarter of soul -
i look down, blackened hand through shriveled lung
a quarter forgotten, a quarter burned

when his stomach rumbles
he puts my hand on his thin abdomen 
and laughs 

/hair/ 
i like to think the still-blond, static strands 
are tiny threads of remembrance - 
floating above his head
like dancing flowers

mother told his childhood was a romance novel
a house, with a name, perched mountain-tip and over-lake
bicycle freedom through manured fields of slanted yellow
a rain-washed, winding alpine road 

i pull a strand from the sleeve of his sweater
pinched thumb to pointer, i almost taste
the forgotten thrill of bitter air 

abandoned by mind, pushed through head
shed to sleeve, mine to borrow

an urge to pick yellow hair from the shower drain.

/feet/
he almost got to the supermarket
while we slapped the concrete with desperate heels
mother found him, bent over a ten dollar bill
she laughed, brassy, through swollen tears 

/fingers/ 
afternoon by window, peeling pigments from the sky 
crisped orange and sun soaked indigo
yellow nails point to dancing silhouettes 
he still knows beauty - there is nothing to forget

I watch him watch the colors fade 
mother told me he was a painter, once 

/breath/ 
he fell asleep beside me, softly
awash in the television’s bluish glow
i matched my chest to his slow rise and fall
knowing this, at least, would be mine to forget

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