Finding comfort

Other people’s poetry is so much more comforting than my own. I mean, I need both, the catharsis of writing and the soothing of others’ words. But the latter seems to fulfill some primal need, like being read to at bedtime as a child.

The Chair She Sits In
by Alberto Ríos

I’ve heard this thing where, when someone dies,
People close up all the holes around the house—

The keyholes, the chimney, the windows,
Even the mouths of the animals, the dogs and the pigs.

It’s so the soul won’t be confused, or tempted.
It’s so when the soul comes out of the body it’s been in

But that doesn’t work anymore,
I won’t simply go into another one

And try to make itself at home,
Pretending as if nothing happened.

There’s no mystery—it’s too much work to move on.
It isn’t anybody’s fault. A soul is like any of us.

It gets used to things, especially after a long life.
The way I sit in my living-room chair,

The indentation I have put in it now
After so many years—that’s how I understand.

It’s my chair,
And I know how to sit in it.

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~ by realsupergirl on October 27, 2006.

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