My sister and I were on vacation when I got
the phone call. No one had died, exactly,
but I did, if only for a while. I’d felt betrothed
before then, so natural were our routines.
To distract me, she took me to watch the sun rise
on shattered-shell beaches and roam Savannah
graveyards. In Colonial Park Cemetery, a wall
of broken headstones so old their inscriptions
were merely mumblings: an ancient unyoking
of flesh from bone and then, what’s worse,
from signifier. No one knew where they ought
to have been replanted, so they weren’t.
Somewhere. Someone. Lies.
Katherine Fallon’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in AGNI, Colorado Review, Juked, Meridian, Foundry, and Best New Poets 2019, among others. Her chapbook, The Toothmakers’ Daughters, is available through Finishing Line Press. She shares domestic space with two cats and her favorite human, who helps her zip her dresses.