Post by auser on Jul 15, 2009 12:01:27 GMT -8
Mrs Korsakoff
An older boy, not quite a man,
Returns through the home's doors.
Lunchtime.
Its one of his duties to feed
Mrs Korsakoff. One year into deep dementia.
''Well she can hardly feed herself can she?''
''She can't even hold a spoon!''
The boy reluctantly does his job.
He saw pictures of her before lunch, from before.
She once had the power to win any chess match,
And she was quite the metallurgist.
But there are no punches pulled by time.
She has been cruelly raped.
She opens her mouth to accept some bland oatmeal,
Grey and dull as her once golden hair.
The boy looks with horror at her eyes
tears stream out of them.
Down,
Her,
Face.
Forking through wrinkled valleys,
Feeding the great veiny raised rivers of her face.
The bright blue,
The poison purple.
''When is my mother coming to visit?'' The 98 year old sobs,
''Later,'' he replies, his heart breaking,
''She said she will see you later.''
Mrs Korsakoff sniffles and eats.
''Will Sergei be there?'' the dementing widow enquires.
The boy fights a tear, tells her he will.
''Is anyone here NOW?'' she cries.
The feeding finishes.
Gone is the grey matter oatmeal.
Mrs Korsakoff sobs uncontrollably.
''Daddy is that you?'' She asks the 16 year old.
''Yes love it's me.'' He pretends.
He calms her,
Kisses her forehead,
Once kissed with Love, Lust and Passion.
Now kissed with heartfelt pity.
Lunchtime is over,
As is the boy's shift.
He sprints out down the road,
screaming in terror.
Mrs Korsakoff died one year ago,
And he just fed a corpse.
Returns through the home's doors.
Lunchtime.
Its one of his duties to feed
Mrs Korsakoff. One year into deep dementia.
''Well she can hardly feed herself can she?''
''She can't even hold a spoon!''
The boy reluctantly does his job.
He saw pictures of her before lunch, from before.
She once had the power to win any chess match,
And she was quite the metallurgist.
But there are no punches pulled by time.
She has been cruelly raped.
She opens her mouth to accept some bland oatmeal,
Grey and dull as her once golden hair.
The boy looks with horror at her eyes
tears stream out of them.
Down,
Her,
Face.
Forking through wrinkled valleys,
Feeding the great veiny raised rivers of her face.
The bright blue,
The poison purple.
''When is my mother coming to visit?'' The 98 year old sobs,
''Later,'' he replies, his heart breaking,
''She said she will see you later.''
Mrs Korsakoff sniffles and eats.
''Will Sergei be there?'' the dementing widow enquires.
The boy fights a tear, tells her he will.
''Is anyone here NOW?'' she cries.
The feeding finishes.
Gone is the grey matter oatmeal.
Mrs Korsakoff sobs uncontrollably.
''Daddy is that you?'' She asks the 16 year old.
''Yes love it's me.'' He pretends.
He calms her,
Kisses her forehead,
Once kissed with Love, Lust and Passion.
Now kissed with heartfelt pity.
Lunchtime is over,
As is the boy's shift.
He sprints out down the road,
screaming in terror.
Mrs Korsakoff died one year ago,
And he just fed a corpse.
