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.