2 poems

by Frances Boyle

touches

wind, stirring strands of hair, a long

brush against cheek

a lift, apparently effortless, the dancer has

ascended

warmth of mouth on mouth, bodies

aligning

solace, arms containing

the child’s bewildered sorrow

a resist, ring bruise on wrist

the singling-out shoulder tap, that

clutch of fear

brush to canvas, pen to paper,

a commencement

thaw

frozen food that must keep two hundred miles

― Gary Fincke “This” in The Fire Landscape

We don’t talk about the package 

sweating in the back seat,

the woman who made it 

or why she felt compelled to press

a tinfoil-clad meal on us at the door

as we kissed her soft wrinkled cheek.

Bright awareness, alert for the drive.

Crystals already furring the inside

of the foil.

The journey slowly melts its heart.

We race time, speed along highway 

until the lasagna, layered in the pan

and cooked two months ago,

is hustled, driveway to front hall 

to oven. Vegetables, noodles, sauce.

Smells good you say.

We should phone 

I say, let her know 

we’re home.

Frances Boyle lives in Ottawa, Canada. Her most recent book is the poetry collection, Openwork and Limestone, published by Frontenac House in fall 2022. In addition to two earlier books of poetry, she is also the author of an award-winning short story collection, and a novella. Frances’s writing has been selected for the Best Canadian Poetry series, nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and appeared throughout North America and internationally. Recent publications include work in Blackbird, Resurrection Magazine, Paris Lit Up, After… and The New Quarterly.