Lane Falcon


I’ve become the kind of woman
who grunts when she sits
and rubs what she spills
into the wool of her slacks.

Eight hours a day, my lap’s
under a desk, how many stains
have set without my knowing?

Eight spiders a year bite us
while we sleep—maybe once
I woke scratching pink
behind one knee.


A better me would brush him

with the edge of one palm
onto the flat of the other, close him

in that apricot egg of darkness,
elbow up a window,

fling him free.


You stand on your toes, one hand
a shallow clasp on the edge

of the desk, six inches above
your head, the other reaches

for an empty water bottle. You knock it down,

but first, your gaze tips to me,
because what’s defiance without

a witness? And I see an old intent,


Lane Falcon’s poems have been published or are forthcoming in The Cortland Review, Rhino, december, Room, Word Riot and more. In 2012, she received an award from the Rona Jaffe Foundation in conjunction with Vermont Studio Center. She has a daughter and lives in Virginia.