Widowhood in the Dementia Ward

By FINUALA DOWLING

 

“Oh my God, I’m so pleased to see you,”
she says from her nest of blankets.
“I’ve been meaning to ask—
How is your father?
How is Paddy?”

“He died,” I say, remembering 1974.

“Good heavens, now you tell me!
How lucky he is.”

“You could join him,” I suggest.

“I didn’t like him that much,” she replies.

 

 

Finuala Dowling‘s poetry collections include I Flying, winner of the Ingrid Jonker Prize; Doo-Wop Girls of the Universe, joint winner of the Sanlam Prize and Notes from the Dementia Ward, winnter of the Olive Schreiner Prize.

Click here to purchase Issue 04

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Widowhood in the Dementia Ward

Related Posts

Headshot of Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Nocturne for Dark Things

AIMEE NEZHUKUMATATHIL
One of the marvels of my life— / an alphabet. A whole green and mossy / world can be made and remade / from just twenty-six dark curlicues. / Here’s more dark: sometimes birds sleep / tucked under a giraffe’s dusky armpit / and sometimes fungi fatten only at night.

A fishing boat on Dal Lake in Kashmir

[Freedom Song]

FATIMAH ASGHAR
i plead, come help free me from me. what an overworked god / the policemen’s gun turning towards the sand, the ocean’s azaadi / crashing blue wave after blue into the fishing boat, thieving / life from its water. everything is a freedom song, i hear azaadi / in the wind & in the flood

Supermarketing

LAUREN DELAPENHA
For example, the last time I asked God / to kill me I was among the lemons, remembering // the preacher saying, God is a God who is able / to hunger. I wonder, // aren’t we all here for that fast / communion of a stranger reaching // for the same hydroponic melon?