Her mother tells me, with wry indulgence
Amber will be in a TV movie of the week, but
blink and you’ll miss her she’s just an extra
two whole days on set makeup, wardrobe
and she’ll only be on screen for a second or two.

A few months later, the mother on the line:
well, it’s the worst, she’s gone said she’d be home
before the last bus three whole days
we haven’t seen her since
gawd, she’s just fourteen I did some bad things
when I was her age but nothing like this.

It’s not the worst, though, not yet. Amber comes back
contrite, runs again. Social services and police.
She texts her big sister one word “lonely”.
Her mother seeks leads, finds her again:
honestly she looked
about four years old on that front porch a hoodie
someone else’s jeans and shoes two sizes too small.

Blink and you’d miss her.

But not all resin accretes to tears, and not all flies
are trapped. Blue earth can yield new growth
fine flecks you can make out as motion.
Twelve years later
Amber’s such a good mother it’s hard
but she’s making it work I’m proud.

The blink of an eye.

Frances Boyle is the author of two poetry books, most recently This White Nest (Quattro Books, 2019) as well as Seeking Shade, a short story collection (The Porcupine’s Quill, 2020) and Tower, a Rapunzel-inspired novella (Fish Gotta Swim Editions, 2018). Her writing has appeared throughout North America, in Europe and in India. Recent and forthcoming publications include work in Best Canadian Poetry 2020, Blackbird, Event, Prairie Fire, The Wild Word and long con. Visit www.francesboyle.com for more.

Image by Natalia Soto @nattysoto92