Chair

I think it was the chair

that broke her

but I like to believe it was

the history & quiet.

The constancy of the red felt seat

and four silver legs

that stood in the room corner

after she fell.

The three wood paneled walls

with her bed, our bunk bed, the crib, a

doublewide window.

The slowing of cars.

The clack of high heels.

The hiss, the calls

eleven floors below.

I like to think time & the noise

broke her.

Boiling raviolis spilling

from the hot plate

I could barely reach

pressed to the radiator in winter.

The bathroom door pushed open against

her chest. The police lock slammed

across the green front door.

The lack of room and conversation.

The company of children

and one man or maybe many

but not for long

and only with sound muffled.

---

A recent graduate of Hunter College in New York where she studied creative writing as well as journalism, Stephanie plans to attend graduate school in the fall of 2005. 

 

Back to Poetry Page
[Back to top]
  Our Favorite Authors Page!