Blur

We all in turn caught on to the Darth Vader
click-and-exhale of the oxygen concentrator,

which went from rolling suitcase to missile-sized
the night you refused treatment and sunk truly

into hospice. Leah was the last of us to understand
the origin of the sound, having traveled from

so far away, but she woke me—
surrounded by longnecks and loose shake—

on the morning you passed. I never thought
I had more time, just didn’t know that you would

become this: a hazy, screenlike sheath between
myself and the world, like Vaseline on glass,

lack of focus proof that I loved you enough.

Katherine Fallon received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Her poems have appeared in Colorado Review, Permafrost, Meridian, Foundry, and others. Her chapbook, The Toothmakers’ Daughters, is available through Finishing Line Press. She teaches at Georgia Southern University, and shares domestic square footage with two cats and her favorite human, who helps her zip her dresses. She can be found at https://www.katherinefallon.com.

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