I still hear the bells in my head she heard that distant Sunday
morning from a church right next door, and wonder what sweet pleasures she enjoyed
the night before, the lips that kiss, and the fingers that reach through the buttons
of her blouse, woken later alone to the ringing bells and perhaps guilt of
having enjoyed too much after her Saturday night slipped into the dawn of the
Lord’s Day, while the hands (and likely more) hadn’t yet finished with her
unbuttoning, spreading her open, to push his fingers into places deep inside
and then, more than merely fingers, waking later to find only his imprint on
the sheets, but not his body or the sound of his voice, just the bells ringing
out the Lord’s Day as her own fingers probe where that man’s fingers had gone.
Does she still feel him inside her even as the bells ring?
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