They say there’s no real excuse for philandering, but a truism persists that after three years a man must spread his seed, leave his weaned offspring to toddle after their tired mother – it is nature, expected, metronomic monotony.
My clock chimes reminders of fallibility wound into my aging carcass. Notice how my meanderings have been tightly circuitous, repeated revolutions in creation, fornication, self-confined to familiar surroundings. But this is where I live, and every four years another man was chosen to minister to this land I inhabit but am not native to, regardless of whether my placental cord grew thickly, was severed, here.
Perhaps I am philandering with a home never given, never truly chosen, spreading weeds into fields never mine.
About the Poet:
Crystal Snoddon finds inspiration in the Canadian wilderness. Her poetry has appeared in SickLit Magazine, Waking Dawn, a Canadian anthology, and various flash…
View original post 57 more words