Sometimes a woman who is not me,
but another one, miles away,
is braiding all the different strands
of her life into one clean thing, warm,
like laundry fresh from the dryer.
Sometimes a woman who is not me
feels lighter, more herself after her man
took off. The man who didn’t close the lights,
wasn’t bothered by sadness licking paint off the walls.
And sometimes, a woman who is not me
loves how open her bed is now. She moves herself
to the middle, claiming his side. Fluffs up his pillows,
or even gives them to the cat.
Every now and then I feel like the woman who is not me,
those mornings I leave dishes in the sink
just to see how long I can, pull open the curtains
or throw out a sock he left behind. Or when
the cat makes a nest in his old sweater,
and I let her.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 6.
Francine Witte is a flash fiction writer and poet, and the author of the flash collection RADIO WATER. Her newest poetry book, Some Distant Pin of Light, has just been published by Cervena Barva Press. Her work has been widely published, and she is a recent recipient of a Pushcart Prize. She lives in New York City.
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