a strand of silk roots into her 

head—the kind of silver that spells 

antiquity at its uttermost 

phase: apparently a sign of growing old. 

she, a woman born from song & 

sweat & split soil—the kind of woman 

who will curse at man’s sky 

because she knows where 

her heart stands; has lived 

far too much life to not tell you a story, 

so she does. every time, seconds 

confused for firsts. 

you are six years old, 

fingers powdered with flour, 

folding dough into half moons. 

clumsy with your hands & words, 

you do not know how to ask for help 

when the green onions & carrots & kimchi cannot help but escape the dumpling you are making. 

she picks up your fallen pieces, 

hands you her hand, & together, you 

perfect your very first crescent. 

that night, you learn how to create a galaxy. 

you are twelve years old. 

by now, she has you convinced that 

your hands are not hands, 

but instead are baskets, 

woven & weaving, 

interlaced like love & lovely things. 

the next day you come home, 

fingers laced with paper-cuts, 

adorned with purpled, calloused skin, 

she weaves your basket with hers, 

hushes your hurt with lullabies & lifetimes, 

sings soil-split stories to you, because 

of course,

wisdom can only ever be whittled with experience & scar. 

of course, 

hands were only ever meant to hold & be held. 

you are thirteen, five, twenty-two, thirty, eight-four, nineteen, six, fifteen years old: clasping her crumbling & coiling, 

silk spreading & splitting & straining, 

suffocating simply because 

that is what time does to the body; 

simply because that is what time does to the mind. 

you are seventeen years old, 

hands powdered with dust, 

time-bitten, 

folding limb over limb. 

clumsy with your hands & words, 

you do not know how to ask for help 

when your youth & her memories cannot help but 

escape the life you are living. 

you crawl into her bed, 

hand her your hand, & alone, 

you remember. 

age & antiquity will devour this 

present & our presence if you let it. 

parts of her left in parts of you, 

yet she is nowhere to be found. 

today, 

making her way through every room, 

she forgets to turn off the lights, 

& in this way you suppose she 

leaves a trail of glow wherever she goes. 

what a funny thing it is, 

to watch the person who watched you 

grow up 

grow old. 

you ask that she stall still; stay with you, 

trace those steps back

to that somewhere, 

sometime. 

together, 

you sit in a cobweb of memory & dream, 

silk: everywhere, & perhaps you 

are too. dust sprawls littered throughout a ghostly room: dead cells resemble an expired reunion—render you an artifact. her wreckage, untucked 

& yours, untucked as well. 

she is stuck in a body that cannot keep 

up with her soul. somewhere: 

rainfall gestures ended fires, 

so fire’s flames grieve through 

hums of exhale. inhale. 

somewhere: 

a fire 

still glowing

—

By Kelly Suh

A poem about dementia & love