Poetry

Cecilia Morris: Sestina

Sestina   There was her diary unveiling my father’s secret, she was aware of his visits when she’d left the house   on nights that she’d worked. Because on her return home he was very elated, my bedroom door not quite closed, the pink bedspread held the form of his secret. She knew of his strange gaze on me when we played. Feared loss of their marriage and remained pleasant, told friends repeatedly of her husband’s manly virtues.   Now I house no secrets, and as I watch my children play discover joy in quietness, family life so pleasurable: harbour…

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