Red Chairs

In the end, she finds herself untethered,
sifting back through messages sent 
to find a reason

they spent all those years together.
She ponders the augurs and yarrow stalks 
and the feathers of lost owls. 

She reads signposts on highways, 
changes in weather,
the passings by of strangers. 

Upstairs in the hall, a picture of them, 
black and silent in its frame, 
bereft of answers.

At the far end, the bed they always slept in, 
sheets tucked in, perfect 
and lifeless. 

Each direction she turns, a new darkness 
finds her—the garage with its cobwebs  
and dust, the porch 

with its red chairs rusting. 
Sunday morning, she starts digging 
in the garden and cannot stop. 

The holes get deeper and deeper
until her hands are bleeding
and church bells are ringing 

and evening unfurls its slow hand. 
Above the trees, the moon 
is a communion plate

offering to return all she has lost. 
A door is closing inside of her.
She falls to her knees 

and presses her hands to the earth.
Silently, with eyes closed, 
she screams.