The winter after your diagnosis, small
creatures Invaded our home:
Golden bodied wolf spiders,
sly slugs that lay in wait
then burst into vivid viscous puddles
on being stepped on.
And moths, endless flickering
moths, threatening as yet undiscovered
holes. I told you about them,
and tried to blot out
the thought of your shrinking
lobe, the image of you
trying to connect the dots, match words
that no longer slotted into obvious spaces.
Fought the dread that eventually
all that would remain
would be the spaces.