A Strange Land by Karen Luke Jackson

A Strange Land

When you open the door
to your past and find
no one inside.

When you wonder who
lived here before.

. . . . . .It’s strange, this land
you now inhabit: gut sluggish,
eyes rheumy, hair covering
shower floor. No longer
do you conjugate verbs,
solve puzzles. Even the comics
befuddle.

. . . . . .And the questions: the unending
second guessing: Did I water
the plants? Feed the dog?
Rear-end that car? Do I deserve
the air I breathe?

You live in the same cottage, wear
the same clothes, become
a stranger
to yourself like a gathering storm,
its rain soon to pound
creeks, dams, ponds
then become
wisps
against a blue scrim.

by Karen Luke Jackson

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/karenlukejacksonnc
Twitter: @Karen_Luke_Jack

Editor’s Note: This poem opens a window into the loss of self via any number of pathways (aphasia, Alzheimer’s, dementia, etc.), with all of its attendant grief and fear and then, sadly, even the diminishing of those emotions.