Letters in the Freezer: Almost Lover I
By Sophie Ezzell
Almost Lover,
Did you use your hands
today to open flames and fold
metal? And did your fingers cut
an apple into too-thick
slices and did you eat them
with peanut butter
like we used to
when we were too young
to cook on the stovetop? Can you
still feel the heat
from the burns scarred on the inside
of your palm? If I touched your hand
would I burn too
or would we just sweat
and drown in each other’s
smoke? Like we almost
did that night
in your mother’s car
underneath a burnt out street
light. When your hands
made impressions in my hips,
left hallowed outlines in my skin
like hands that had been pressed
and dried inside wet cement.
The grooves in your callouses etched
half-whispered psalms
into my sides while your thumbs
strummed up
and down my rib cage. You separated
your fingers inside my hair and pulled
the rest of me to the rest of you.
I asked you
to dismantle me, collapse
me, break me
down in your hands
like a weak sheet of metal
because you were the only one
I trusted to take me
and scar me and melt
the scars back to smooth
using the flames folded inside
the lines of your palms. But
you only touched
my cheek and offered
to take me
home.
Sophie Ezzell (she/her) is a queer urban Appalachian writer. Her work has appeared in Under the Sun, Aquifer, and Pidgeonholes, and has been nominated for a Pushcart. She recently graduated from Marshall University with a BA in Creative Writing and is now pursuing an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Oklahoma State University. Lately, her work has begun to explore the relationship between trauma and the Appalachian region. Since moving to Oklahoma, she has become afraid of wolf spiders, the ever-looming threat of tornadoes, and flat landscapes.