And now that he is dead, the chair is hers,
a place to sit above the shifting dirt,
a piece of brittle wood, an ancient curse
that moans as if it too had suffered hurt.
A crack to match the scar upon her face
feels 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 comes on she doesn’t move at all
for fear the chair might simply disappear,
and nothing will remain to break her fall,
and nothing will remain to keep her here.
Her mind is gone, of that she is aware,
but now that he is dead, she owns his chair.