poetry thursday...late again.

to speak through another's voice,
see through their eyes,
what can i see
when you prompt me...
i chose my grandmother
who stubbornly set herself down
in my head yesterday and said
"this one is mine.
write it about me."

she had had alzheimers.

bright orange curls
and quick blue eyes
that's what i expect
to see.

but when they set
the mirror down-
the reflection
cannot possibly be...

who is that woman?

she is not me.

she is old.
and lost.
and broken alone-
weary and sad,
the world no longer
to her
with memories
beginning to

she is not me.

where am i?