BY ANGIE MACRI
He had a name written
that no one knew but himself.
Time came he couldn’t speak.
But first, he spake as a dragon.
He called my name
coming up the stairs,
the name of an angel
that he had given me,
the name of his mother
dead when he was young.
As if to say please.
And there was nothing
I could do but watch
the unwind of his brain
in the disease, the plaques
and tangles in his mind.
We shared the anger of a dragon,
unable to understand anatomy,
neuropathology,
fate, the plan. Open
came the sealed book
of the future, the morning
star, the stairs of oak
unwinding to a name.
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