The Disease Talking

That’s not your neighbor,
           that’s the disease talking 
                     to her mailbox, pleading

                               for a letter from her dead 
                     husband or distant son, 
           a few words that might lift

her out of her housecoat 
           and curlers at five p.m., 
                     out of the tangle and haze,

                               back to the night Hulen 
                     proposed, under the first 
           full moon of 1965, under

the tupelo in her parents’ yard, 
           and that’s the disease opening 
                     the metal box and staring down

                               its empty throat, hoping to find 
                     a tunnel back to the clarity 
           and patience that helped

her raise three kids, and keep 
           the budget, and stick with friends
                     she knew were good, even

                               when they failed her, and that’s 
                     certainly not her hollering 
           at the drivers just making it

home from work, and the dog walkers 
           who love your street’s broad-shouldered 
                     poplars and oaks, that’s the disease

                               barking in their faces,
                     cursing them in ways 
           she’d wince to hear,

and that’s the disease now
           standing in the middle 
                     of the lawn with her eyes

                               closed, moving her arms in long,
                     slow circles, like a swimmer
           crossing the length of a quarry

lake, her shoulders turning 
           like oiled gears, hips riding 
                     high and flat, her kick rhythmic,

                               smooth, while the whole town 
                     cheers, and that can’t be her 
           telling herself to head

inside, ignore that stranger 
           next door—you, with your paltry
                     key in case she gets locked out;

                               your mower, rake, and shovel 
                     to tend her lot; and in the end 
           your willingness to let—

through the seasons 
           of her decline—
                     the disease do all the talking.