–Mary McCue

*

*

The stranger who sleeps next to me

looks like an older version

of the man I married 20 years ago

but that person no longer resides in his body. 

Dementia steals him away every morning

when I shake his leg to rouse him

remove his watch and necklace of rudraksha beads.

He lies there like a sack of sand

not raising arm or head to help me.

*

He’s a toddler going backward

not intending to provoke or obstruct

forgetting that the pants

go on before the shoes

while I seek a way to forgive

my spouts of anger, bouts of tears

His disease tethers me to home

like a dog on a line

*

Bitter words, vinegar sour

dare not look back at years lost

dream of a better time

Then waken next to a stranger

with his face.