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The Adulterer. It was not long ago she left, an hour perhaps-…

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The Adulterer.

It was not long ago she left, an hour perhaps-
Tea-stains printed into porcelain,
Slightly steaming; filmy skin.
Tattle-tale propaganda.
It was not yesterday that her mouth,
Small and budlike,
Slipped silently with his into comfort
And threw us all out.
Our child finds, smooth and round,
The chestnut the colour of blood and coffee leftover,
At the furthest edge of a forest.
Ardently pressing it into his hands,
He sets for home, and Daddy Dear.
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