Читать книгу Notes From the Dementia Ward - Finuala Dowling - Страница 10

Self-portrait from the dementia ward

After a few mouthfuls of supper

she lies back on her pillows,

struggling against the bedsore to be comfortable.

Words elude her: ‘Everything is so . . .’

and she moves her elegant fingers

in a way to suggest a Jackson Pollock painting.

I think about prompting her

but I want to hear the substitute –

the synonym that her shattered genius will provide.

Even so I am surprised:

‘. . . modernistic,’ she says eventually

and closes her eyes,

exhausted by the last stand,

the self-portrait.