She wants the house with the red armchair to envelop her.
Safety spread out like a blanket over the blazing cushions.
Sitting. Just sitting.
But the wind blows through.
Secret air streams leave the doors ajar,
as if an invisible person pushes them slightly open.
At first it startles her, then it reminds her
of shuttered altarpieces in quiet churches.
Sacred content wanting to be seen.
She imagines opening battered panels, finding a once beloved,
now estranged face behind one.
More recent crucifixions behind others.
Framed by the wind they look like finished paintings,
but she knows better.
She will have to bear another round through the seasons.
The lines of the face curving like those of a landscape.
The sensation of overstretched limbs and pierced flesh
coming back to her.
Whenever the wind blows through the house with the red armchair.
Leaving doors ajar.