There are days I
confuse Parkinson’s
with Alzheimer’s.
Maybe I’ve been
coming down with
both. Tremulous
à la San
Andreas. Amnesic
like a dissipated answer—
the snuffing of its candle;
wisps that up & frizzle
to the ceiling, evanesce
to merge with wafting clouds.
There are days I
mix up lupus
with arthritis.
Either way I
cannot climb the steps.
You spoke to me of
wolves & full-moon
fever. It’s lupine I recall—
you added lunacy.
I thought it just in jest.
The days will come
when I’ll muddle love
with cancer.
Will heave you in my arms
which throb from
fibro—the jack-of-all-conditions—
neuropathy’s poorer
cousin, place you in the
loo so you can purge
yourself of chemo’s
supposed cure. I’ll cup my
ears at the bruit of violent
retching, limber up
to bring you back to
bed, place you under quilts
I’ll feign bring comfort.
What’s it called
when heat & cold are felt
in the very same instant?
When you sense you are
aflame in ambered ice?
When you race at the speed of
sight while lying still,
knowing diapers will be
bookends to your most-
belovѐd’s life? Aging in
reverse would make no
difference, helpless to utter
a word on both your
last day & your first, the person who
wipes your drool you’re
unable to name.
Andreas Gripp
June 5, 2026
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