It was not death
which scared me most
when my work was in the nursing home.
Death is a final mercy.
It was the protracted
debilitating
daily
petty theft of the mind
rarely taking everything at once.
First the memory of where objects have been left.
Next what day it is.
Who that person is.
The word for the, the, what is it?
How this body moves
Zippers and pants
The rituals of hygiene
The names of family members
The years
Youth
Mother
Me