your memory is stained with decaf
and the crinkles of Sweet'N Low packets spirited away
into the bottom of your purse from queens boulevard diners
on those brisk Tuesday evenings we'd huddle against in the fall
your memory is wigged, with eyebrows painted
in aqueduct arches an inch above your eyelids
you knew how to draw out curves, like laughter from loved ones' lips,
with the same effortless ease
your memory has soft folds of skin like
the inner layers of freshly-baked croissant
on your hands, gesticulating through an hour-long shpiel,
about nothing in particular at all
your memory has your feet up on that chair under the stitched Mets blanket
that swaddled you through dementia into death
it has your lit-up eyes at the ever-new loved ones
coming to greet you at your door
it carries the frayed edges of an old photograph
a year or so in
infused with the smell of old-country perfume
and the sounds of the soft grunts you made
as you sat up to kiss me
before i left you
for the last time