© 2018 kate hoyle. 

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POEM //

CANDLEWAX

when I was a child I would dip my fingers in the liquid wax

of the candles on the dinner table

and let it harden

until I could peel it off in one piece and read my fingerprint

 

now I dip my fingers in you

and am made to harden

curled around your shape

my form becomes the shadow of your story

and I am lost

 

when I was a child I would dip my fingers in the liquid wax

POEM //

MARCH iii.

i went walking
this gray morning
to the place we used to meet
it’s the first Thursday of the month
so the blocks are empty
cars moved for fear of being swept away
a kind of welcoming

when i got to the shore
the grains of sand whispered
they’d missed me
nudging sweetly between the lines 
on the bottoms of my feet
the water looks the same
cold, inviting
persistently folding herself over the beach 
in quiet reverence

in the place between the two rocks 
where we’d sit 
and tell our dreams to the seagulls
a sapling is growing
baby Cedar tree
i must’ve dropped a seed 
the last time we were here 
when your heart still beat in your chest
and there were more dreams to be lived

now the gulls and the Cedar and i 
sit in echoing silence
breathing into the shape you left
the mist comes forward
offering her blanket
we are held in the space
where you now move

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