The Chair

Is it your place, that chair?
Where you gaze far into
the ruins of your castle,
its intricate labyrinths
where walls have been razed and stairs fallen
and not even the god who once built it
can find the way to its heart.

Is is your bridge, that chair?
Between life and death,
one foot on the side
of your children’s mountain,
one in the vale of your sisters’ graves,
falling, rising, but never closing,
just slowly fading away.

Is it your life, that chair?
angels looking down from the shelves
with eyes, that once meant, on you,
you shake your head but
I wish you would say yes
so that you could rise, from that chair
fly or fall;

be free.


/for you, grandma