Remains, by Maureen Simons
They came back every year to lay flowers at the spot. Two little girls, hand in hand, walked soundlessly up Nora’s driveway.
For My Siren, by Emily Bornstein
Don’t tell me there isn’t something pretty about you / (don’t tell me you don’t know it).
by Katharyn Howd Machan
about his sadness. / About how the moon hung full / that morning, every morning
by Valentina Gnup
At sixty-one, I count and recount my remaining summers.
by Jeff Somers
When she signed the lease and moved her stuff into the place, she knew she was leaning into a decline she’d begun some time before.
by Douglas W. Milliken
Mum died in the last days of October, leaving—among other things—a lot of fall-time chores incomplete.
by Benjamin Cutler
After the final harvest, the forecast / called for freezing temperatures / and the end of this winsome world.
by Lauren Lynn Matheny
Whatever the color, there had been a balloon. There had been a boy. And there had been a fall.
by Partridge Boswell
Blind to what tickles the delta of nerves there / you rub a humming with the back of your hand
by Simon Perchik
These gravestones left stranded / warped from sunrises and drift / —they need paint, tides, a hull
by Kari Gunter-Seymour
Remember that time your dog died and I didn’t tell you for months
by Angie Ellis
I keep a list of songs I know well, so that if I get dementia people can reach the real me hidden inside my broken brain.