In Defence of Adultery

We don’t fall in love: it rises through us

the way that certain music does –

whether a symphony or ballad –

and it is sepia-coloured,

like tea that stains as it creeps up

the tiny tube-like gaps inside

a cube of sugar lying by a cup.

Yes, love’s like that: just when we least

needed or expected it

a part of us dips into it

by chance or mishap and it seeps

through our capillaries, it clings

inside the chambers of the heart

to atriums and ventricles. We’re

victims, we say: merely vessels

drinking the vanilla scent

of this one’s skin, the lustre

of another’s blue eyes skilfully

darkened with bistre. And whatever

damage might result we’re not

to blame for it: love is an autocrat

and won’t be disobeyed.

Sometimes we almost manage

to convince ourselves of that.

-- Julia Copus, from In Defence Of Adultery