Our hearts are made of red stained glass.
We lose one year one memory one name at a time.
They take away
our drivers license and tell us when and where and what to eat.
Men in white shirts come to help us out of our clothes.
Out of the blouse with tiny buttons.
Out of a bra we’d rather burn.
We can’t get our legs off the bed and they say it Parkinson’s.
As if we didn’t know.
They turn away. They leave us
the way we used to leave our computers.
Inscrutable things no one learns use.
And now there are no sisters left. Or brothers.
And the cracks in our glass hearts are spreading.