The title says it: these couplets don't fit together, and that's the point. Each one pairs a piece of the speaker's mother's decline with something small, unrelated, or just nearby. She keeps falling, she gets lost, she doesn't recognize her own child. Beside these facts sit a missing flashlight, a burned supper, a low mouse battery, a photo of the sunset.
The speaker never says how she feels. The pairings do it for her. Ordinary life carries on, with its chores and garden pests and seasons turning, while something huge is happening at home. The odd leaps suggest a mind that can't hold the grief directly, so it grabs at whatever is close. The question "do I still believe in god?" drops in with no more weight than the weeds, which makes it feel even more raw.
The mood is quiet, watchful, and a little numb, with fear underneath. The repeated burning, from parsnip, rice, and Jupiter, hints at a pain that keeps flaring up.