Villain
I’m sorry you’re the villain
in every poem, how I write
about the bouquet of red flags
you so often handed me but never
of the summer nights spent
in the hammock, slowly rocking
in the warm breeze, your body
pressed against mine. I never
write about dancing while
the pasta sauce simmered or
the playlists you created from
music illegally downloaded.
I’m sorry every story of you
tells of the restraining order
and the changed locks, my
shaking hands and stuttering
heart. But not of the blue lizard
who lived under our stairs who we
named Bob and imagined elaborate
tales——always including a cowboy
hat and spurs because clearly,
every blue lizard needs a cowboy
hat and spurs. I’m sorry I don’t
write poems about the beach
near our house, how we walked
along the packed sand each night
and how once, in the moonlight,
you got down on one knee
and I said yes. Instead I write
about my fickle hands, my bruised
heart, the weight of the book heaved
at my head. But once there was love
or some broken form of it. Once
all I wanted was to be the last piece
in your jigsaw puzzle, to fit snuggly
and complete the picture. Now,
I rarely think of you, rarely write
poems about you. But when I do,
they look like this.
On Learning My Favorite Flower is Poisonous
I think of all the wrongs
I could right, the course
corrections I could make.
My sister’s ex: one petal
for every curse word
he hurled at her, one petal
for each harassing text,
each Artic stare, every
demand that dripped
from his mouth like venom.
I’d dice the petals, grind
them into a fine powder,
sprinkle it in T——’s drink,
a reverse roofie, repayment
for the time he tried to tamper
with mine but accidentally
spiked my best friend’s drink.
I had to drag her from my car,
deposit her into my bed.
I’d brew a strong tea for man
who wrapped his hand around
Hayden’s neck, who left
a fingerprint necklace circling
her throat. I’d give bouquets
to every girlfriend, a hidden
note tucked into the stems,
paper folded into an origami
heart, instructions for just
in case. This spring I planted
a different kind of garden.
I’ve given up on tomatoes
and carrots, I’ve no room
for cucumbers or corn.
This year I’m growing only
flowers, I’m filling every pot
and planter with fresh soil
and silent bulbs. Already
green shoots are pushing
through the dark universe
of soil, reaching toward light.
I filled an entire planter
with the spiked bulbs
of my favorite flower. I eagerly
wait for them to bloom.
Advice on Unmaking
after Britt Ashley
The first time he returns from Detroit,
nine and a half hours of turnpikes
and jersey barriers and bright orange
construction cones but waits a day
to call you——don’t pick up on the first
ring, let it go to voicemail. Wait a day
to listen to it and then another to call
him back. And when you go to him (after
picking up the phone, you foolish girl)
recognize that night in his bed for what
it was: a goodbye. His body telling you
what it will take you almost a decade
to learn: he will always want you but
he will always choose you last. When
he ends it the next morning, after one
final goodbye fuck, delete
his number from your memory.
Scratch out his eyes in the one picture
you have of him. And when he comes back
in three months wave him away
from across the street, don’t drop
to your knees in supplication——you’ll wear
those bruises for the next ten years
and they will always spell his name.
Courtney LeBlanc is the author of the four full-length collections, most recently Her Dark Everything and Her Whole Bright Life (winner of the Jack McCarthy Book Prize). She is the Arlington County Poet Laureate and the founder and editor-in-chief of Riot in Your Throat, an independent poetry press. She’s also the founder of the Poetry Coven, a monthly generative workshop she runs out of her home. She loves nail polish, tattoos, and a soy latte each morning. Find her online at www.courtneyleblanc.com. Her favorite revenge story is Medusa——every man turned to stone deserved it. We’ll pretend Perseus didn’t behead her but instead was turned to stone himself.
