The Language of Women

Handsbyjamelah Dementia, disease, cancer, age
these thieves have hidden the words just out of reach,
stolen the meaning from the faces framed on her dresser 
Daughter or husband might as well be
shoe or teapot

I come to bathe her, to ease her
warm water streams through her hair,
winds down her back
trickles into her cupped hands
with a sigh, she closes her eyes,
breaths the scent of lavender and roses
she knows this place

a moment in time born again
she laughs, standing in the rain,
bright and beautiful
the first kiss
the last kiss
the language of women
is not so often spoken in words

(Marcie's note: This poem is on permanent display at Washtenaw Community College)


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