Dementia Pantoum
Kelsey Ann Kerr

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I tell my grandmother my wedding date five times in thirty minutes.
Each time, she murmurs, Oh, I wish your mother could be there,
and I squeeze her hand tighter with what I won’t say.
My sternum comes unglued and splays open.

As she murmurs, Oh, I wish your mother could be there,
I think of my dad’s observant perfusionist eyes;
my sternum comes unglued and splays open,
and I cradle my heart in my hands until they turn to rust.  

I think of my dad’s observant perfusionist eyes,
how he would have seen everything, walking me down the aisle,
and I cradle my heart in my hands until they turn to rust.
But I don’t say a word to my grandmother about

how he would have seen everything, walking me down the aisle,
or how all three of them won’t be there.
I don’t say a word to my grandmother, instead,
I show her my white dress, my shoes, my veil.

No, all three of them won’t be there.
I squeeze her hand tighter with what I won’t say.
I show her my white dress, my shoes, my veil.
I tell my grandmother my wedding date five times in thirty minutes.