Poem: a message home from all that place of getting
it's a strange time, this time of corona. language, for me, has broken down. often when i speak i'm struggling to find the words, or nouns wind up in the wrong place. and increased hours in front of a screen is making my brain feel overheated. it's exhausting. last week i watched a couple of short videos of my mum that i shot on my phone in February. she is swimming in the deep waters of dementia. i listened to the way she used language, the misplacement of identifiers and objects, the mis-interpretation of words like 'wave' which has more than one meaning. i noticed how she was seeing things that, arguably, weren't there. like little girls in the pattern of a blanket. i wrote down her sentences, weaving two conversations together. here's the poem: a message home from all that place of getting i don't find it dirty but you can get that red coming you can get that red coming that nearly redding redding red when it's been properly red type of th