she wears the sky because the sky knows the distance. it is a blue cascade, blue as grief, as drowning. her hands are emaciated brown, holding her up. over the fence. over and over again, dementia takes over my grandmother. over my grandmother, dementia takes and takes and takes and takes. her flesh is an empty vessel, an emptying, emptied. when I talk to her, my voice returns. my voice turns, pinwheels on a freeway with no brakes, and everything breaks. everything breaks my grandmother. everything breaks even my grandmother. breakeven, my grandmother is only half-alive. there and not. a cropped evanescence. a fractured fragment falling. all I have—
Hannah Keziah Agustin
Hannah Keziah Agustin is a writer and artist from Manila, Philippines. Her work is found and forthcoming in Guernica, AAWW's The Margins, The Minnesota Review, and elsewhere. She currently resides in Wisconsin, where she studies film and English.