by Anna Buck
the brain is a remarkable thing, I’ve been told
until it breaks, or was it always broken
when did yours start telling you lies, and when did yours
turn to dust
like waking from a dream, you can’t grasp what is real
we slip from your memories
I trace the plaque, the rose colored glasses, that grew across
your spongy ridges
I want to poke
like my children, pressing their fingers
into the dough, warming on the counter
and say here is where it all went wrong
About the Author
Anna Buck is a stay at home mother and new writer who lives in Williamsburg, VA. She received a BS in Sociology and minor in Psychology from Virginia Tech in 2009, and hopes to continue writing about mental health and her own personal journey of becoming a mother while losing her own.
