Your skin, a permanent bathtub

wrinkle. I fold it back,

watch the years struggle

to glow through dull spots

in rough patterns.


You haven’t forgotten your war stories.


Always watching, eyes

alive like broken windows,

scattered under a

milky-curtain residue.


I should’ve known you wouldn’t remember me.

Fallon Collins lives with her three dogs in Jacksonville, Florida. She graduated with her MFA in poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts last summer, and teaches English and creative writing to juvenile male inmates. She has previously been published in BACOPA, Gloom Cupboard, Camroc Press Review, and Poetry Quarterly. She keeps a blog with some of her favorite quotes, photos, and poems at

This is a piece I wrote when I was thinking about how much I missed having a bathtub. I was also in the middle of watching a documentary on dementia, and was really heartbroken by the idea of being vulnerable enough to surrender to memory loss. I wanted to show the lack of color I'd imagine would come with a loss like that, and really enjoyed playing around with images in this poem. 




Copyright 2009