Chair of Heavy Wood

A chair of heavy wood stoodin the kitchen candlelit by wicked beeswax.This chair slept under the shadow of dried rosemary,copper pots and iron skillets.A seat for her and for him.For the woman to rest,read letters and recipes bakedfor her husband.

He wore a fox fur covered leather coat on his hunts for quail.He drank and ate the marbled slice of rye with apricot jamcarved for himand preservedby the womanin the chair of heavy wood.She followed her tracks in the snowforever bounded to the docks for news of salt and porkand metals too precious to smelt.

The woman who baked in the glow of fire, her facesmeared and perfumed by the smoke from a stone oven,sat in the chair of heavy woodto read a letter from her son.A message typed by steel hammers swung into ink splattered ribbons:“my arrival is soon and will coincidewith a bounty of fresh vegetables and chocolatesfor you and father.The harvest yieldsTo the whims of a bipolar spring.”

She sat and seasoned the dough with turmeric to salvean inflammation of the heart –

a beat on the doorremoved the woman froma chair of heavy wood nowwarm and emptied.