Two chairs lean toward the wall,
one slants forward,
the other back.
The forward one made of yarn,
the backward covered with pins.
No title, but two chairs,
two h's falling
as though part of the alphabet gave way.
A husband yelling in your face.
You lean back,
he leans forward.
No, it's more
when all of that is over,
two h's,
hope and healing.
Not another,
but yourself reaching yourself
saying, bend,
forward and backward.
There, in the corner,
a thin woman carrying fruit.
The years didn't hold
but isolated within yourself
you find cause to go on,
this resisting trouble,
sitting it out.
The bundle of silver stars climbs
over your flat house,
playing overhead
with children in the attic,
heat beating from the woodstove
in the corner,
handball and stick ball,
leaning to the other,
one forward
one back.