Seven By Seven, Times Three


When you still remembered my
name, and yours, you joked with me
that you could read the same book
night after night, as though it
were new. One blessing hiding
the horror we didn’t know
was growing. One book would do

for life. One book was all you
needed when still-remembered
words lulled you to sleep each night,
and the house you lived in for
fifty years was still home, filled
with familiar faces, not
yet strangers. They came later,

disguised as husband, children,
but you saw right through them—us—
and cried for help. And we cried
with you, wishing we could break
the curse, take back the times we
joked about forgetting, glad
one book was all you needed.