By Elizabeth Harper

I dreamt I was Donald Trump’s wife. We were traveling.
He basically kept me in the dark about our itinerary.
I didn’t know where we were going or when we were going.
I had an enormous amount of luggage.
Many little pieces that needed to be fitted into larger pieces.
And of course every place we went, I had to unpack the little pieces,
lots of jewelry and cosmetics, little jars and bottles and boxes.

At one hotel room we were getting ready to go out
for a glamorous night on the town,
and he said, “You need to get everything packed up.”
And I said, “Aren’t we coming back to this hotel suite?”
And he said, “No. We’re going on to our next destination.
Hurry up and get all of this packed up.”
And there I was, trying to get ready to go out,
and at the same time, pack all these little things,
trying to do a good packing job,
packing each little piece of luggage
like it was a 3D puzzle or a bento box.
And he kept badgering me and insulting me, saying,
“You’re so slow! Why are you so slow and stupid?!”
All the pieces of jewelry and expensive cosmetics
were things that he had given me.
And I had to take care of these things,
and I couldn’t leave anything behind,
because he had given them to me,
and he would be hurt and angry
if anything happened to any of these little things.
And I felt awkward and klutzy and rushed.
And I couldn’t even let myself think
for one moment that any of this was unfair,
because that would mean that I wasn’t grateful.
A slow, stupid, beautiful, awkward wife,
teetering on impossibly high heels
in a silver sequined evening gown,
trying to pack up everything perfectly
and quickly, not knowing the next destination,
not knowing how to escape, feeling her very self diminishing
as the piles of baggage grew larger and larger,
uncertain of how it would all fit.

But of course Trump’s wife probably doesn’t pack her own luggage.
And if she does, she’s probably much better at it than I could ever be.