The Wife's Chronicles...

I went to a writing workshop on Saturday and I found my friend, The Wife. She is a friend of my muse. Heck, she might even be my muse.

All I know is, every so often I will write a poem and when it comes time for a title, there she is, The Wife, trying to get her two cents in, trying to get her fifteen minutes of fame, trying to be funny. Thing is, sometimes she's not so much funny, as biting.

That's how I know she's not me. I am not biting. I'm mommy. I'm the smiling art teacher. I'm the lady in the kitchen, trying really hard not to make shoe leather out of pot roast.

This Wife person. She is tricky. I'm sure there's an Indian legend about her somewhere out there. Tricky.


The New Wife, A Scientist by Nature, Considers Puppetry

No strings attached, you say?
On the first day of her honeymoon,

the new wife regards a collection of puppets
in a store window. Girl puppets, boy puppets, hanging in tandem.
The wife has a camera. The husband has a camera.

They are recording their happiness.
What is the standard operating procedure
for operating these dummies without strings?
The window is so clean, so clear, it is like looking in a mirror.
Who will raise my arms?
Who will move my legs.
Oh dear. Critical error. On closer inspection,
my lips are unattached.
Look closely now, husband. Bend at the waist.
What is it making my lips move?
There are so many variables.
There’s string weight, string density.
The very real possibility of unraveling, fraying.
The wife knows. She has come to a conclusion.
If her strings are removed, she will just lie there.
The husband will get splinters all over himself trying to move her.
What’s this? Let me get my magnifying glass.
Impossible, husband. Strings growing from your fingertips.
You said no strings attached.