Table For None

I am a Savonarola chair carved from discarded remnants of cedar and birch that littered our backyard - waiting to be burned or broken by a trespasser’s hands, or tended to by the warm touch of a gardener’s natural instinct; an individual who values growth and prosperity. I am an object forged from splinters and sweat. My four legs become six when your spoiled bones and blackened hearts grow weary. Stilted fractures wax like leprosy within your fumbled thoughts - seeking respite as you recount negligent actions upon broken fingers. Father was a saw and cut out his tongue. Mother was an awl boring through his visibility. Ignorance sanded his face. Blind eyes rendered him mute and useless, like a comb without teeth or a song-less linnet bird. I am a piece of furniture. A curio cabinet curiously displaying your mistrust. An end table advertising no family portraits. An ottoman whose cushions knead the detestation clinging like muck upon the backsides of chafed ankles. I am: Father's severed chainsaw. Mother's twisted liquor cap. Sister's crumpled gum wrapper. Brother's fleshtone punching bag. I am a chair. I serve a purpose - but not for you. A chair can be slip-covered, polished, straddled and veneered. A child cannot. I am most content when six legs morph back into four. Exuberant, I then know my private existence can breathe - and the hardened antecedents who took advantage of my open arms and inviting lap have grievingly walked away.