In my sanctuary,
on pastel blue carpet
that almost shimmers
I will lie down on my back
absorbed by Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
I have no starry night of my own.
Hovering in a corner is
my mother’s burgundy Queen-Anne chair
where she once sat,
but no longer.
Sometimes I sit with my cheek
buried in the velvet upholstery
and although my eyes are closed,
I see my mother on the desk shelf
across the room.
The velvet is damp.
I return to the floor
and study the nicks and dents
on the chair’s wooden legs.
I notice my inflatable globe
trapped between the chair and the wall.
I press on it,
trying to conform it to a shape that
will offer it freedom. My trembling
hands blur beneath the earth.
