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Visitor
by Lisa Marie BrodskyFor you to visit me on Wednesdays
I must seem greatly intriguing.
You brush my hair, chat away,
paint my nails.
One day I even saw smoky eye shadow
on my lids.
You stand between me and the television
and urge me to lift my knees
for exercise.
You massage strawberry lotion into
my hands, oceans of wrinkles.
I vaguely hear Dean Martin
and Rosemary Clooney as you lift
my arms like a marionette worker.
Before supper, you leave and kiss me
on the forehead, tell me you love me.
I watch you walk out the door
and into your car.
Am I enough? Why do you want to visit me?
I have not answered any of your questions;
I cannot speak. I have not clinked
Coke-a-cola cans with you; I cannot
move my arms.
I remember you for ten seconds after
you leave and then you are a stranger
in my guestbook of strangers who just
happens to come again next week.
Those words you utter as you leave
and I cannot say them back because
I see my cup and pills coming
which reminds me of dinner.
01/24/2006 Posted on 01/24/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Delilah Coyne on 04/03/06 at 03:29 PM This is so sad, yet moving and full of love and devotion. |
| Posted by Jim Benz on 04/09/06 at 07:13 PM this reminds me so much of the last time I visited my grandmother in the nursing home before she died. she sat in a chair silently, as always, while I read aloud from A.A. Milne's "now we are six", the same book she read, or recited from memory, to me as a child. at times while i was reading, an intense glimmer of recognition would cross her eyes then fade. It had been several years since the last time she'd spoken, but her eyes said plenty to me that day. this whole series of yours is easily some of the best stuff I've ever read at pathetic, hands down. outside of clearing up a few typos here and there, I think this would make an absolutely lovely book. nice job Lisa. |
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