Her Last Chair
A breathing weight pushes flesh
into fabric and wood.
A cellular heat melds, sinks inward.
Fibrous miasmas knit cloth and foam
to a ligamentous persona.
Nightly, less of her
is peeled away to be packed
between sheets.
Her last chair takes upon it
a deeper imprint then her body alone.
It has folded her inward into hollows,
each one a pool of bodily memories.
This evening the chair has the shape of a lover
He has two more legs, but his arms
still thrill in a comforting way.
Together they are both tucked into
one more upholstered dream.
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