Body Heat / Almost Love
Ned, you’re in that place again,
neither awake nor asleep,
neither all-in nor all-out.
That in-between kind of thing.
The kind of thing in between you and Matty,
like a car window she rolls up
until her body dissolves
into your body
wearing that floppy, wide-brimmed hat
she bought you
for when it starts coming down.
After the murder, it will come down.
That in-between thing like a timing device
set between not doing something
and doing it. In-between things
like wind chimes,
those ancient links
between the natural world and the body,
like a couple of dozen chimes
hanging from her balcony
the night her husband was away,
thin chains of tiny o’s
and ornate oyster shells.
The ones you went to see. To touch.
You touched the o’s. You touched the shells.
In-between things like French doors
she locked on you. The ones
you looked through. The ones
you smashed in. Now, you’re in jail
with bars between you and her.
You have nothing to do but think
how you almost love
the ease of it, that hat, the chimes, those doors–
how each glass pane held your face
in a perfect frame.