Bodies of Water

We sit on the veranda at assisted living
looking across the fake pond at the trees.
Their reflections shiver as a breeze ripples
the murky surface of the water. You speak
of rivers and creeks and how all things
make their way to the sea.
I can’t forget that everything in you
seeps from the cracks of your container
as dementia runs you through a wringer,
a towel hung to dry. You’ve seen it all
and share your cures in dainty spoonfuls.
Who benefits from this assisted living?
Guilt weighs heavy as sandbags
that shore up our old foundation.
I know the membranes we wear
only function when permeable.
I have no way of knowing where
one of us begins and the other ends.