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.