Colder
He was six foot four, and forty-six
and even colder than he thought he was
-James Thurber, The Thirteen Clocks
Not that I cared about the other woman.
Those perfumed breasts with hearts
of pure rock salt.
Lot's wives-
all of them.
I didn't care
if they fondled him at parties,
eased him in at home
between a husband & a child,
sucked him dry
with vacuum cleaner kisses.
It was the coldness that I minded,
though he's warned me.
"I'm cold," He said-
(as if that helped any).
But he was colder
than he thought he was.
Cold sex.
A woman has to die
& be exhumed
four times a week
to know the meaning of it.
His hips are razors
his pelvic bones are knives,
even his elbows could cut butter.
Cold flows from his mouth
like a cloud of carbon dioxide.
Hie penis is pure dry ice
which turns to smoke.
His face hands over my face-
An ice carving.
One of these days
he'll shatter
or
he'll melt.
Parable Of The Four-Poster
Because she wants to touch him,
she moves away.
Because she wants to talk to him,
she keeps silent.
Because she wants to kiss him,
she turns away
& kisses a man she does not want to kiss.
He watches
thinking she does not want him.
He listens
hearing her silence.
He turns away
thinking her distant
& kisses a girl he does not want to kiss.
They marry each other -
A four-way mistake.
He goes to bed with his wife
thinking of her.
Sher goes to bed with her husband
thinking of him.
-& all this in a real old-fashioned four-poster bed.
Do they live unhappily ever after?
Of course.
Do they undo their mistakes?
Never.
Who is the victim here?
Love is the victim.
Who is the villian?
Love that never dies.
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