FRANCES BOYLE

Self-Portrait As Helium Balloon

Already I am making
myself lighter just

thinking of what I might
shed. Possessions stones

in my pockets, tasks
ankle shackles. I float

off floorboards without
hitting ceiling or power

lines or sky. Do I miss
the push of slippered toe,

booted sole imprinting
soil? Can scudding clouds

make up for your touch, on
shoulder, on small of back?

The way we’d lean in, our
two heads in chat?



Note: The italicized words are from January Gill O'Neill’s poem After Making Love, I Leave to Write a Poem.