after “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop
Yesterday I didn’t recognize my purse.
Last year, I didn’t recognize my friend.
To be fair, the purse was nondescript, the friend
had makeup on, a dress, and contacts in.
I’d never liked that purse. Plain black vinyl, cheap,
it works. But I had always loved my friend.
I know I’m not the first to fear the worst,
to wait for senior moments that don’t end,
for lapses that extend to loss of words, abyss, or worse.
My father didn’t recognize his house, his wife.
My mother learned to lie, to leave and come back in
with a cheery “Dear, I’m home!” in hopes of jogging him.
I pray that’s not my portion of the family curse.
I cannot change my chromosomal blend.
But just in case, I’m learning to pretend,
to arm myself with filler words and pronouns to stick in.
I’ve bought myself a memorable purse. I’ve been forgiven by my friend.
There is no art to losing it, no thing to master to blend in
if that disaster’s destined to descend. Toward the end,
my father only recognized his brothers and his mother, all long passed.
If heading off that cliff-edge is my course,
I’ll hope for visits with dead parents toward the end,
and meantime, keep my address in my purse.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 5.
Jayne Relaford Brown recently finished a two-year term as Poet Laureate of Berks County, PA, and has been using the pandemic lock-down to work on a collection of poems. She has an MFA in creative writing/poetry From San Diego State, and has published an earlier book, My First Real Tree (Foothills). She retired from teaching writing at Penn State Berks in 2018, and is celebrating having more time to write.
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