FRANCES BOYLE

Sheila

And we explore the suburb under construction, 
ride bikes over dirt tracks laid down by other kids, 
ramp-like mounds that give us a slalom ride. 
We descend into basements, climb the skeletons 
of house, boards laid between footings 
our temporary bridges over chasms. Sometimes 
we scramble to rafters in bungalows, split 
levels, and a scant few two-stories. 

Is it you or me who finds the winter cave 
made, we figure, by feral boys, a den we slide
into like otters? The belly crawl, the dimness.

Sheila, remember the wildflower weeds we sold, 
what ample time we had for talking, summer
and winter? Comic books, magic books, making 
up our own stories. Consider present as fiery ice 
versus a soft-focus past. The feel of those summer 
days, the parks we’d sit in, the grass beneath us. 
What shines? I don’t ask myself that, won’t 
introduce a bit of bright into memory’s dim dissolve.

Verging

Dusk will inure me as it does
that lavender moment. 
How do I drill into the heart, 
make its gurgle audible, 

comprehensible on a plain
white page specked with flecks

like wild rice, spilled? I look
for a line to cross so I can move

from memory to viscera, sculpt 
emotion clearly as a facepalm. 
Does a feeling need a name, 
a gesture, to animate pain or joy? 

A sob, articulate as a sonnet. 
What salve to massage a heart to song?