In Love for Two Hours


On the dance floor

his scent grows green ivy,

wrapping our bodies

in an ephemeral universe

two tiles across.

He leads me gracefully to a slow song

as I lay my head on his chest,

a pillow of manhood and cotton.

His eyes are a breezy window

I’d jump through,

his fingers a camera

zooming in on the shot.

He’s out celebrating

best documentary

at the film fest.

I part from his arms

to tell the band,

which has been cutting into songs

to indulge bachelorette parties.

The piano player,

struggling to pronounce his name,

points him out in the crowd.


We nestle in a booth,

his hand drifts to my space.

Through my black denim,

up the hill and down the mountain

he goes.

Wrapped in his body heat,

I close my eyes,

accompany the guitar solo

with my whimpering aria,

and grow lax.

He’s headed back to Budapest

the next morning.

My cats are hungry.

In Love for Two Hours is the third poem published in Grilled Cheese Sandwiches and Other Tales of Love and Loss, a collection that Sally O’Dowd is publishing in stages.