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by Sharmgne Leland-St. John

Her hair spills out
upon the pillow.

Early morning light
filters through lace curtains,

illuminates her porcelain face,
caresses her bare breast
and soft bed linens.

Her disappointment shows,
she cannot hide it.

He has once again slipped away
silently in the night,

to return home to his wife,
his children.

The boy Cosimo, named after him

the girl, Olympe, barely four.

She has seen them in the palazzo gardens,

catching butterflies, chasing hoops
with the Torrigiani children.

She wants a child of her own
with him;

but she has not conceived.

She searches her memory, her soul
for a time

when she was truly happy...

A time when her lover
did not slink away in the night,

to return to children who
bind him to a wife

who does not understand him,
does not please him,

the way he says she does.


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