Man, with collar raised,
peers in office tower glass
composing his tie.
* * *
First snow this week
bright now on the morning lawn
green again by noon.
* * *
Rite
My father’s evening ritual. After dinner, one of us would bear an apple to him, on a saucer, with a paring knife rattling off balance against the china. He would carefully peel the fruit in one long red-green spiral, pale skim of white apple flesh clinging to it. I’d often snatch a scrap or two of the parings, but I couldn’t eat an entire loop, skin would catch in my throat. Dad would slice fine wedges off the peeled apple for himself, sometimes offering one on knife-tip to my sister or me.
crisp Cortland bite
sweet softness of McIntosh
holy as communion
Frances Boyle’s most recent poetry collection is This White Nest (Quattro Books 2019), with her third collection Openwork and Limestone forthcoming with Frontenac House in 2022. She is also the author of Seeking Shade, an award-winning short story collection (The Porcupine’s Quill 2020) and Tower, a Rapunzel-infused contemporary novella (Fish Gotta Swim Editions, 2018). Her writing has been widely published, with recent and forthcoming publications including Best Canadian Poetry 2020, Blackbird, Pulp Literature, long con, Event and Minola Review. She lives in Ottawa. www.francesboyle.com.
Red Alder Review 