Hmmm, a tricky subject adultery, but it's dealt with well here in this poem. And what lovely descriptions, especially - 'We don't fall in love: it rises through us/ the way certain music does...'
Here is a poem that doesn't malign adulterers, but empathises with them. They are not to blame, for 'love is an autocrat/and won't be disobeyed...' True enough - or, is it?
In Defence of Adultery - Julia Copus
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 split tea that inches 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.
We're victims, we say: mere vessels,
drinking the vanilla scent
of this one's skin, the lustre
of another's eyes so 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 manage
to convince ourselves of that.