Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 7
Table of

What’s left

is a room with a white-boned light
spilling through the window, sad
blue of the sea outside. And now,
the wooden chair that the husband
pushed back from the table. He told
the wife he was leaving, wanted to
be more like the sea. Nothing but freedom
and motion, the sparks of fish swirling
under the waterskin. And with that,
he slammed out the door. It will take
weeks before the wife can open the window,
let in the salt air, weeks before she can
cook a dinner of white potatoes
and unsweetened tea. She will know
that she has to live basic now.
One table, one chair, and one window
where she can finally look out
at the twist of waves, realize
that the sea is only moving, after all,
at the simple whim of the moon.

  Francine Witte __

©Patricia Carragon: Caribbean Splash

When he leaves her,

the memory of her draws itself
in deep lines on his forehead, stuffs
itself into his wallet behind his money,
white and quiet till he needs to pay
for a stick of gum. That’s when he feels
his life sinking back to what it was before
her. He suddenly sees that their hearts
built a shelter around them, a sweater
against all those chilly winds. And when
he is told he can’t pay for the gum with
a twenty, he puts it back on the counter,
puts his money away, tucks the memory
of her back into his pocket, thanks the man
just the same and moves on.

  Francine Witte__
The Leaves Have Forgotten

Death twist and crackle to the ground. Silent and bloodstopped. No more sweet breeze of
springsummerfall. No more lovers with their whisper promises catching in the green, or even a
child, pink fingers waving goodbye. Those were summer things. Passing ache of youth. Caught
like a photograph.

Now the leaves go dry.
Memory presses out of them,
Float away, like time.

  Francine Witte__

That day, the air

a lavender breeze stroking
             the neck of a woman.  The woman,
a flower on the summer lawn.   The
             lawn, needled and bending
into the soil. The soil, a sponge
             waiting for the moisture of love.
Love, which is hanging, an unpicked
             apple on a nearby branch.   The branch,
arced out like an arm stretching
             out to the man.   The man, who
is walking to the woman who
             is waiting for him in the lavender air.

  Francine Witte__