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
He’ll melt.

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