Your Chair
Pamela Davis
	for my father
You've died. 
Risen on two
ghostly legs,
No longer do
you fill this
seat. Absence
beatifies. Yours
brings glory to
the lowly things
you owned. If you returned, the chair would not hold
you as you were. It goes on being dark oak. You go
								on being gone.
								Did you think
								you gave it
								purpose? Look—
								it shines where
								your thighs
								sank gratefully
								onto wood.
								Don't worry
								about the chair.
								It's stood up.

after Gerhard Richter's Stuhl im Profil, oil on canvas 
Pamela Davis is a California poet with recent work appearing in Prairie Schooner, Painted Bride Quarterly, Existere Journal of Literature and Art (Canada), Natural Bridge, Sou'Wester, Stand (UK), Valparaiso Poetry Review, and Zone 3. A recipient of Atlanta Review's International Poetry Prize, Davis has also been published in Nimrod as a semi-finalist for the Neruda Award, in Southern Poetry Review's special Poets of the West and West Coast issue, as well as in CALYX, Folio, Jabberwock Review, New Ohio Review, Southern Humanities Review and other literary journals. In addition to freelance editing and writing, she has a first book of poetry making the rounds. Her first summer job was working as a go-fer at her father's mortuary.

more by Pamela Davis:
Build to Suit
Birds Caught in Windows
Hotel Room