• Nancy Botta

A Banal Sort of Betrayal

The mid-century outdoor sconce

I helped your wife install last summer


your slightly receding hairline,

5-day old stubble,

sweat stains on a blouse,

the glint of a best friend charm on my wrist-

and your forehead slick with guilt

when my arms, encircling your neck,

remind you

that we never truly cared

about all the lines we've crossed.

—Nancy Botta


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