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The Ranch House
When Natasha went blind, it took us years to notice;
she knew the corners
of the table like
protrusions
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
cataracts
pooling
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.