kindle for the fire
This chair has chipped paint.
Its shadow is long by its side.
Due to the light pouring through the window
Slanted only like the sun in the middle of August
Fragments of dust float around the chair
Like suspended stars, or the pixel points on an LCD screen
Through the shaft of light streaming in
Through the heat oozing, and seeping into the pores
This chair envelopes like a warm embrace
Soft ruby pink cushions impressed:
Feathers where the cushion is ripped stick to your bottom
To be annoyingly brushed off
(Like brushing the curiosity of a stranger aside,
Yet this chair is no stranger!)
The chair’s white coating wilts within the dankest humid air, and you feel it:
Like the skin you wanted to shed when you first entangled from sheets this morning
This chair rocked my great grandmother and her children, and my mother
Creaking like an anchored boat on a calm day at sea.
Exposed grey brown wood now soft to the touch unless it is where it splinters These jagged pieces are small and piercing at certain points Like the penetrating eyes of a gaze that commanded long ago-
To take her son.
For this, the entire chair will be kindle for fire in autumn. For this is where she sat and remembered.
She remembers watching fire settle on the waters-
Red and orange arms spreading-
War in the distance is better.
Her heart was slammed shut and darkly cloaked.
The blaze after two black holes collide disappearing
And she was not comforted by the arms of the chair, when war came too near
This I remember, on this too hot day in the middle of August.