While He Rocks the Cradle

A soft hush as wooden slats brush

Against the eiderdown duvet, thick

With the sweat of lovemaking, stiff

From the cum that spilled hard

Across my tits, rolled from the nipple like milk.

While he rocks the cradle, I curl

Into our premarital bed, remember

The nights before children, before

The platinum loop of ownership

And wonder who that girl was

And where is she now, the slack jawed

Wide eyed one. The one with the tits

And the accent, the hair that curls

In damp and thirsts for drink

The way he needs to be thirsted after.

“You don’t hug me,” he accuses, excuses

For the affair.

American in Britain • Confessionalist voice, exploring narrative essays, BAME topics, pop culture, parenthood, obesity, race, travel, literature and food.

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