The Ranch House

When Natasha went blind, it took us years to notice; 


                                                            she knew the corners 

                                                            of the table like 


                                                            of elbows, 


                                                            she knew turns 

                                                            of the hallway like 

                                                            the channels

                                                            of her femurs. 


                                                            She watched us,

coming in with the groceries

and going out with trash.


                                                            She announced visitors

               clicking like a skipping stone

down the hall.


                                                            She watched us

                                             until her eyes became

                                                            nickel discs 

                                                            polished to reflection





on my arm flesh, where I’ve bumped

into corners 


showing signs 

of being neither here and there.


Now                                              she is barking

at a back bell that no longer operates, 

for the milkman, 

                                                                                          who no longer comes.