by Lane Falcon

Bridges keep collapsing
in his body.

What if the graft dissolves
like last time?

Like the surgery didn’t
happen?

Then weeks of epinephrine,
choking so bad

he shot up in his crib
to grab me,

and panic wicked him away
shit after shit, vomit

after vomit. Every day,
death peered closer,

until I let go, let them
replace the trach. 

This time, they’ll cut
the graft wider,

place it higher, so when
I uncurl the canula

from the scar-twined
hole in his neck,

and, in his pupils,
I see a patch of trust

blooming through fear—
he will breathe.

It will hold.

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Lane Falcon is a poet who lives in Alexandria, VA with her two kids and dog. Her manuscript, Deep Blue Odds, was selected as a finalist for the Black Lawrence Press Hudson Prize, and semi-finalist for the 2022 Tupelo Press Berkshire Prize and the Inaugural Laura Boss Narrative Poetry Prize.