Alzheimer's Curriculum by Lauren Camp

Again, it is evening. Moon singing the trees
when he asks whether there are two of any one
of us, his mind in and out of its tamper.
Instead of replying, I let him spin
his stillness and mirrors. His speech
has become an unfixed point. He explains the large
then smaller. I learn so much
as he orders eternity and repeats it.
My wrist commits to his figments.
The letters are teachers
and I write, horizontal, whatever comes next
from his mouth. Clear blue jays out the window.
I am amazed that here’s fortune again in increments.
I write against the white table.

Photo by Sourav chanda, used and adapted under CC.