Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                         Page 7
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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