The old lady in the bed opposite you
has dementia. Her eyes were brown,
but cholesterol has haloed them blue.

Most of the time, she lies
like a vague angel, speaking
only memory and mimicry,

but now she wants to go
to the bathroom and has forgotten how
or that she is not allowed.

No, no, no she howls when told
she must use the bedpan or soil her nappy.
She says toilet and take me and please—
I can’t go in the bed, Mum.

She is a nuisance to the nurses,
must be held and hoisted.
Her arms bruise like bad apples.

She struggles and struggles
until it’s over, then smooths
her blankets down, tremorous,

look at us,says,
Thank you, darling, thank you, dear.