Fishing in the Spring

Every memory I have begins with dementia.

You can’t remember why – and everything is tangled
up in lines, just the same way I used to cast a rod,
and not the way you taught me at all.


You’d say, “Release at one o’clock,”
but it was the last thing I learned;
telling time was the first thing you forgot.


I say, “You’re my dad,” and you laugh –


I say, “You named me – I’m Angela.”


You smile and say, “What the heck?”