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Of Forgetting

Ram on the rain scarf, a print I hung
           on the wall, a tapestry so crude 
a subletter pulled it from the wall
and crumpled it in a drawer. 
           The image shows a shaggy creature
a grin barking out, a yellow lunar moth
lighting on its hide. Can we describe it
           as, can we call the ugly 
thing bright tallow against navy blue
a chiaroscuro? When she wrapped it
           over her orange curls in
the German rain, my grandma never would
know the dementia coming for her, her body
            a degrading web, her throat 
forgetting how to swallow even ginger ale,
her favorite golden drink robbed of her. 
                      Under a tree,
           her body thick and glorious
under a tree, the rain purled over the ram,
a string so precious over the moth, could she
           have felt the hands pinning it up, 
the sub-daughter never so young
that lying in the face of danger 
           surprised her. My grandma
the forger the hoarder the caller
the scientist the mother the girlfriend
           the wife the widow. How likely
the sub-daughter sees utility as decorum,
a rain scarf protecting auburn curls 
           above a brain
that would drown in her golden soda.
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