Ella in Her Armchair

Hands folded,

I am breathing her in.

 

My open eyes adjust to the dim room

and her silhouette against Venetian blinds.

She perches in the armchair.

 

Undaunted by silence,

we are both listening.

 

Tick—tick, grandmother clock.

My heart beats,

Her ribcage rises.

 

The well-worn wing-back

upholds a formal distance.

Once they shared a kindred bond—

Proper both, but also tender.

 

Now its arms awkwardly protrude.

Hesitant to embrace,

it is afraid like me in my shortened breaths

 

to find it cannot take her in.

The reverberations of her life have been

widening since they met while

 

her earth-grain skin slips undisturbed

through floral upholstery onto the floor

beneath wooden baseboards.

 

With Strong German Self-Assurance,

and a spine shriveled, curved,

and slowly diminishing, she perches.

 

Spring 2007