Francine Witte
The Mover’s Wife
Tired of her husband in other
bedrooms all day, she starts to dream.
How simple would it be to wrap up
a life and move it out one fragile
item at a time. First the heart, then
memories tissued up and boxed. She
dreams this over coffee late afternoon,
before her solo dinner on the
wedding china she uses every day.
At night, her husband comes home, sinewy
and smudged, drops himself down
on the couch like a heavy carton.
Of course, he is taped shut, but she
can’t help but wonder what’s inside.
Thoughts of other women, purchase orders,
back supports, or maybe a flash of their
first night together here, him cradling her over
the threshold when the future stared back
at them like a blank, unfurnished room.