Alzheimer’s Translation: Syllabics

Alex, um, it’s dad, Michael, again. I’m waiting for Susan my wife to get here, we’re supposed to go to the, uh, dentist, she’s supposed to be here, I think. I don’t know what to do, call me again, I’m just so miserable being here alone wishing to be with you and [sigh] you know my life is just awful, gimme a call, please my sweet Alex. I think I love you more than anything in the whole wide world.
         —Father’s voice message

Thursday, late.

            My son’s patience ruptured. Was only 

a matter of time.

            His wife gasped and echoed his shrill.

So did his baby. Spread outward from the house 

            on wind, then struck the trees and sent,

in that filmic trope,

            flocks in centrifugal scatter, 

as after gunfire.

            I held the phone hot and cocked.

We’d lost so much

            air, peaked bluish in gun-smoke dark.
 
Late Thursday was my room.

            Whoosh of flushed birds repeated 

my caw, caw.

Read more from Issue 21.2.