The Crushed Cushion in Her Favourite Chair

A cushion crushed to the shape of her back,

A room hushed seeing now what it lacks.

For a time keep the cushion as if locked in a case,

For a time keep it as still as your face.

Hide far behind that solemn mask

Let it fester and pickle, let it turn dark -

A vacuum that sucks in all that you feel

And hides it right down deep in your heel.

In time plump the cushion, re-use the chair

Once you have brushed off all of her hair.

Keep it now as if it’s pristine and brand new,

Treat it with all the attention and care due -

But still do not sit in it yourself,

Still furtively glance, treat as if on a shelf,

As if you expect to see a vision of her ghost

Tutting if you sit and try to act as host.

One day you will remove the cushion -

One day yourself will be pushing

That chair out of the room,

Once you’ve passed each stage of doom.

But not today.

Today we will think about what has been lost,

Today we will ask ourselves, “Was ist los?”