And now that he was dead, the chair was hers,
a place to sit above the shifting dirt,
a piece of brittle wood, an ancient curse
that moaned as if it too had suffered hurt.
A crack that matched a scar upon her face
felt sharper to her small and steady hand
than any knife he’d kept within this place
except the one she’d buried in the sand.
When night came on she didn’t move at all
for fear the chair might simply disappear,
and nothing would remain to break her fall,
and nothing would remain to keep her here.
Her mind was gone, of that she was aware,
but now that he was dead, she owned his chair.