The Chair She Sits In

I've heard this thing where, when someone dies,
People close up all the holes around the house —

The keyholes, the chimney, the windows,
Even the mouths of the animals, the dogs and the pigs.

It's so the soul won't be confused, or tempted.
It's so when the soul comes out of the body it's been in

But that doesn't work anymore,
It won't simply go into another one

And try to make itself at home,
Pretending as if nothing happened.

There's no mystery — it's too much work to move on.
It isn't anybody's fault. A soul is like any of us.

It gets used to things, especially after a long life.
The way I sit in my living-room chair,

The indentation I have put in it now
After so many years — that's how I understand.

It's my chair,
And I know how to sit in it.

Alberto Ríos
The Theater of Night
Copper Canyon Press

Copyright © 2006 by Alberto Ríos.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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