We lay there, the night we met.
I was big spoon, my left hand
cupping her right breast.
She asked me about my marriage.
I revealed shame, bruises.
She said, you don’t have to live like that.
It’s only now I can see,
tree pushing through the canopy,
branches longing for the light,
that that sentence was the seed
from which everything since has unfolded,
leaf upon leaf, foliage of a new life.
Slut of the Cloth 
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