MARGARET GIBSON

Hard of Hearing

Curled in your lap, Clara
purrs—engine
and primum mobile,
a cue for contentment
in the confines of the moment.

And because there’s more
than one way
to heaven . . . and perhaps
because Alzheimer’s
has a purr in it,
mesmerized, I murmur
more to the fire
than to myself,
“Maybe we’re entering
nirvana. . . . ”

Puzzled you look over
and reply,
                    “Entering lasagna?”