Dementia

My father passed ... gone
and within his wake
my mother took up residence, with an
obscured assassin.

Immune he is protected in her house
the darkest of nights

unbeknownst to her
he's carving her brain a sliver a day

ingesting it ... smiles
content with arrogant entitlement.
Belching from his bowels
the pieces of her sweet identity
fluttering away with the morning sun
waiting ... father collects them in his heart
like cupid's quivers.

My sibling and I are wringing our hands
circling this vortex with drowning child ...

She is ninety-four going on fourteen
with anachronistic vanity she
fluffs her naturally charcoal grey hair
Oh yes - oh no! Does my lipstick look right?

The current state of morning
at my parent's lonely bed