(PROSE POETRY)
THE WIFE WHO MADE A WISH
INGRID ANDERSSON
THE WIFE WHO MADE A WISH
INGRID ANDERSSON
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud
was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
-Anais Nin
Spring ravished her rooms, bearing musky narcissus and sweet-fleshed hyacinth blooms. It slipped in through the open windows while her husband was away, hunting chamois in Switzerland, slipped in with the call of a cuckoo. Neighbors began to wonder at the abandon everywhere, her hair coming down and how her blouse-front fell away, the sound of music spilling out her windows. She wished to be one with everything—sun, trees, grass, soil and set the goat free to bring life into the place. That is how her husband found her—gamboling in the garden with the goat—his gun in hand and dried blood of chamois on his coat. She pulled her blouse together and tried to explain, the Cuckoo and Spring, but the sound of it made her laugh, and when he began to stammer of scandal and something bestial, the house stank of something bestial, she laughed and laughed until she burst, like Spring, into flower.
was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
-Anais Nin
Spring ravished her rooms, bearing musky narcissus and sweet-fleshed hyacinth blooms. It slipped in through the open windows while her husband was away, hunting chamois in Switzerland, slipped in with the call of a cuckoo. Neighbors began to wonder at the abandon everywhere, her hair coming down and how her blouse-front fell away, the sound of music spilling out her windows. She wished to be one with everything—sun, trees, grass, soil and set the goat free to bring life into the place. That is how her husband found her—gamboling in the garden with the goat—his gun in hand and dried blood of chamois on his coat. She pulled her blouse together and tried to explain, the Cuckoo and Spring, but the sound of it made her laugh, and when he began to stammer of scandal and something bestial, the house stank of something bestial, she laughed and laughed until she burst, like Spring, into flower.
Ingrid Andersson is a full time midwife and poet in Madison, WI. Before obtaining a Master's in Nurse-Midwifery, she studied poetry and literature in Swedish, German, French and English at the University of Wisconsin. Her writing has appeared in The Progressive, Midwest Review, Intima, Ars Medica, and Minerva Rising. Her poetry was nominated for a 2018 Pushcart Prize.