Body Heat / Almost Love

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.

 

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