Frances Boyle
SOLACE
The shape belies the story. The tickle
in your throat becomes a cough
that wracks the chest. Warmth escapes
the blankets, those blankets the only
thing holding you within yourself.
Picking at the window’s frost
with a fingernail, you trace
filigree, carve the scent of snow
into your body. Wanting fills
your mouth with warm wet taste.
Your hip clenches and your torso
tips askew, legs sudden staggered
posts. And the slip of one foot
over another, arch across instep,
becomes the only solace you crave.