Between the forceps and the stone
we tangle in folds of lace:
christening gown, wedding dress,
curtain drawn to filter the light.
We melt in indecision, but
the road solidifies beneath our feet.
Dotted lines blur into dashes
as we mount vehicles and move.
Patterns repeat, of trees and rocks,
of days that all taste the same
till a bitterness taints our memory
of honeycake and wine. We trap
ourselves in air-conditioned rooms,
put the warm world beyond, behind
glass panes. No humming screens
of summer nightbreath – the heat
confronts us if we dare step out,
a wall of humidity and dark. Late
nights walking home used to slip
like a shawl off bared shoulders.
Those late nights when cicadas
would weave a fabric of sound
that sat like silence in my ears.
Frances Boyle (she/her) was raised on the Canadian prairies but has long been based in Ottawa. She is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Openwork and Limestone (2022) and Light-carved Passages (2024), as well as Tower, a novella (2018), Seeking Shade, short stories (2020) and Skin Hunger, a novel (forthcoming 2026). Recent/upcoming publications include work in The Fiddlehead, Glass Poetry, The South Dakota Review and The New Quarterly. Website www.francesboyle.com; on socials as @francesboyle19 (keeping it easy with the same handle on Twitter/X, Blue Sky and Instagram).
Comments