Eclipse, not apocalypse

By Kim Fahner

On the day of the eclipse, the ophthalmologist peers into my eyes,
asks if I have a ride home, tells me my eyes are too dilated to risk it;
You can stay, she says, until totality is over. I say no, I have a ride waiting.
 
Look down, not up. Totality. On a cloudy day, totality is hard to fathom: this eclipse
feels like Grace Kelly without a flowing scarf in Monaco, or Bogart without McCall,
or an event that will summon up everyone who looks to sun—a book of revelation.
 
On the day when I worry about glaucoma and cataracts, friends set up lawn chairs
in front yards—share Sunchips and celestial cocktails, take selfies, peer skyward.
My doctor says, Not a good idea. Not all glasses are made equal.
 
Blurred vision, my pupils a vortex of darkness with navy piping, I squint
to make out her face. Ask her if menopause affects eyes, too, as the rest of me
has fallen into steep disrepair. No, so that’s one good thing!
 
Afterwards, a friend drives me home while I look to the ground, blinded by bright.
Headache arrives with tired eyes. I shut them tight, imagine which turn is which.
Which road? Friend says, Almost there. Don’t open your eyes.​

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Orchid Killer

By Kim Fahner

In her spare time, she kills orchids.
Tries to coax them along by offering
an ice cube once a week, knowing full well
this is the best way to entertain their fickle nature.
 
Beyond orchids, the air plants hover,
suspended from wire cages
like domesticated songbirds.
The air plants long for a bath— 
just fifteen minutes, once a week— 
but her mind doesn’t keep time
anymore. She tries to watch the minute hand
creep around the circle of a vintage Timex
inherited from her dead grandmother,
but forgets to water. Neglect is a form of abuse.
They survive despite her negligence— 
just a bit more anorexic, more prehistoric.
 
The hyacinth lasts for two weeks, chopped low
in a small white vase that takes on the metaphorical likeness
of an unbroken Newfoundland sea urchin. Then, quickly,
it fades, too, joining the ghosts of orchids and air plants,
wishing it had bent more towards the watch on her wrist
in an obvious nudge to remind her of when to water next. 

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Kim Fahner lives and writes in Sudbury, Ontario. Her first novel, The Donoghue Girl, is being published by Latitude 46 this fall, and her next book of poems, The Pollination Field, is being released by Turnstone Press in Spring 2025. One of Kim's poems was a finalist in the 2023 Ralph Gustafson Poetry Contest. She is the First Vice-Chair of The Writers' Union of Canada (2023-25), a member of The League of Canadian Poets, and an associate member of the Playwrights' Guild of Canada. She may be reached via her author website at www.kimfahner.com