Dementia

Her madness was mere notion then.
From behind our papier-mâché masks

we watched impassive as it grew.
There’s water in phase two: a soul’s

geography within a bowl, the vegetable
colors of her mind floating like islands.

At the last it was a singular thing,
as when a gourd is left on a thatched

roof in the sun, all rind, shaping
its roundness to perfection.

by Frank Fagan

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