Posts Tagged ‘chair’

What I need tonight is a chair—
the big upholstered kind
that sighs when I sit into it,
the kind that holds me the way
I used to imagine a cloud would hold me—
downy, cozy, comfy, secure
and filled with light.
I need a chair that will make me
not want to get up to do
whatever important thing
I think I must do.
Why do I always think I need
to do something? Why
is it so hard to just sit?
So, I guess, what I really need is a chair
and a seatbelt, the kind
they have on helicopters
with five straps that meet
in the center—though
I think those are self-release,
and we all know I will soon
feel driven to rise and rush,
no matter how cumulonimbus-ish
that chair might feel, no matter
how insistent the straps.
So tonight, what I really need
is a soft chair and a five-strap seat belt
and a giant weighted blanket—
not heavy enough to crush me,
but one with enough gravity
that being still feels like the only
real choice. And if I am still, very still,
and not accomplishing anything for a while,
then perhaps I will meet this grief
I am escaping—not that I am trying
to escape it on purpose, it’s just
there is so much important
stuff to do and, perhaps,
let’s say I’ve noticed that when I just sit,
just sit,
with nothing to read and nothing
to do, the grief sits with me
and asks nothing of me except
that I meet it. In that moment,
I remember turning toward grief
is what I most want to do.
In that moment, there is nothing
on any to do list that could deter me
from meeting this grief.
Oh world, I remember.
I remember right now,
so please, what I need most tonight,
it doesn’t matter how soft,
is a chair.

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Leaning All the Way In

If I let it be,
grief is a chair
that supports me
when I crumple.
It requires
nothing of me
except that I give it
all my weight.
Limp, I sink in,
and it doesn’t ask me
to try to pretend
I could rise.
It lets me wet leaf.
It lets me empty room.
It lets me vast sky of gray.
It holds me.
I lean in.
I nothing for a time.
I slow ache.
And grief says
yes to me.


oh friends, my father took his last breath this morning just after 5 a.m. he was loving and full of gratitude and
positive and warm till the end. I thank you for all the kind messages I have received–if I do not write you back, please know that I do read every message and thank you by name. I am so grateful for your support. I know the poems have been a fairly relentless chapter of grief–and love. And love. I have never been more in love with the world, even now, especially now. 

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Consider the generosity of the chair,

sitting there with its arms open, its back straight,

its seat ever ready to hold you.


Consider how it was made to support you—

how its legs take all your weight.

Perhaps it is beautiful, artful, handsome.


Perhaps it exists for function alone.

When is the last time you knew yourself

as that useful? When is the last time


you gave yourself so completely to another,

said to them, Sit, please. As long as you wish.

I am here for you. I am here.



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