Sunrise So Like an Un-Peeled Orange - Katherine Fallon

it’s hard not to be hungry. The ice fields
shatter rough as faces within a carnival

mirror as I enter the coppice, walk
the fire-blighted mountain. Mark

of the hoof of a horse along the footpath.
Scent of predators. Fog of some other

mammal’s open-mouthed breathing.
I knew the minute each one crowned

that they were here to break my mold:
my daughter, married and missing,

an unbeliever; my son a quiet man,
born in snow. I hold the fir to fling

myself down the incline, sure-footed.
Pinecones skitter behind me as though

I were partnered, as if I were a leader.

Katherine Fallon has lived in ten cities in seven states and has worked as a nonprofit grant writer, cheese cutter, barista and events planner. Most significantly, she spent two years as a farmhand in Colorado, dodging rattle snakes, leading cattle from pasture to pasture and moving irrigation pipes at 6 a.m. She now teaches Composition and Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at Georgia Southern University and students say her office is full of “weird things.” She spends a lot of time thinking about visibility and mental health. She loves to make things, from bread to jewelry to Shrinky Dinks to miniature clay foods. She shares domestic square footage with two cats, a red-eared slider, two African cichlids, two hens, and her favorite person, who

helps her zip her dresses.