Memory Exercise (Margrit Wie Vorher)

They have wrapped her arms like a pharaoh.
Her skin is so fragile the air of the vents
could peel it from the bone.
I wheel her down the unit
and she beams at the trees stenciled on the wall,
says each one is recht.
We stop near the fish tank.
She was once a concert pianist
and I recall what I can about La Traviata,
Rigoletto and Madama Butterfly.
I mention Die Fledermaus and she begins
speaking in German.
“English, Margrit.”
“Are you German?” she asks.
No, but I tell her I’ve always wanted to go there.
She tells me it’s recht.
I weave a scene for her:
It is late evening and the town is dark.
I have come to a tavern for a dessert of beer.
The place is yellow in the night
and the sound of cabaret songs slides on my back
like the coat I slide off my shoulders.
She is at the tavern too – at the piano.
Her hair is blonde and full
and when she sees me, she begs a song.
We sing until the sun breaks over the Rhine –
her skin as strong as the music she plays.

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Haunted by Alzheimer’s Patients

I dream of my old residents:

This time they are in a semi-circle –
wheelchairs and recliners,
support group style.
Velma is curled up like a dry roach,
jaw hanging. The head nurse informs me
“Linda’s gained too much weight.
Now she is fed every other day.”
I try to talk to Linda but all she says is
“So hungry” and all I can reply is “I know.”

I dream only the dead ones, never the living.
Those who were carried out by EMTs.
Not the ones who still ask
where their mothers are.
They are always seated together – waiting
for Scott, the activities person, to visit.

Why do they come to me?
I don’t help them anymore.

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Born in Binghamton, NY, Scott Fynboe is former radio DJ and talk show host now pursuing a PhD in Mississippi. He is currently at work on a collection of poems that examine his experiences working with Alzheimer’s patients.