Courtney LeBlanc
EVEN NOW
Even now I can't stop looking
for houses, changing the search
parameters – one bathroom or
two, another $50k on the maximum,
townhouse or single family home.
I'm planning my life without you
not because you're going or gone
but because my heart is a fickle
bitch and every day she beats
a rhythm I'm still trying to follow.
I divide our possessions in my head –
the dining room table and chairs
are mine, the TV yours, the bedroom
furniture mine but the new mattress
and box spring . . . Both dogs
are mine though you may not like it much.
Maybe I do this because I've done
it before – severed the promise
of until death do us part. Maybe I do
it because I don't believe in a happily
ever after, maybe it's survival, maybe
it's instinct, maybe it's fear. Because
if I settle in, if I unpack my heart,
find a permanent place for it
on the shelf, what do I look for then?
for houses, changing the search
parameters – one bathroom or
two, another $50k on the maximum,
townhouse or single family home.
I'm planning my life without you
not because you're going or gone
but because my heart is a fickle
bitch and every day she beats
a rhythm I'm still trying to follow.
I divide our possessions in my head –
the dining room table and chairs
are mine, the TV yours, the bedroom
furniture mine but the new mattress
and box spring . . . Both dogs
are mine though you may not like it much.
Maybe I do this because I've done
it before – severed the promise
of until death do us part. Maybe I do
it because I don't believe in a happily
ever after, maybe it's survival, maybe
it's instinct, maybe it's fear. Because
if I settle in, if I unpack my heart,
find a permanent place for it
on the shelf, what do I look for then?
MOTHERED
I was mothered by sturdy women
of earth and sky and harsh winters.
Women who baked bread, the yeasty
smell rising on Thursday night, floured
hands punching it down so it could repeat
its growth and each Friday morning I woke
to the doughy scent, the butter melting
into golden pools for my breakfast. These
women washed and cleaned and cooked
for the Sunday potluck. They pickled
at the end of each summer, the steam turning
the kitchen into a sauna, the moisture
gathering on my mother's brow as she lifted
the jars out of the pressure cooker. And while
the men harvested the fields, traveled like
locusts from one farm to another, the women
traveled ahead, camping out in kitchens
to feed the hoard when they descended –
gallons of lemonade stirred, casseroles
and salads and cookies spread out
on the table for the men – their hands clean
but their faces dusty, the dirt worked into
the creases at the edges of their eyes. I carried
plates between the kitchen and the table,
replenished bread and condiments, listened
to the men talk about the work – what was
done and what remained, the price of wheat,
who would barely scrape by this year. The
mothers gossiped in the kitchen about who
missed church last Sunday, whose child
was failing, whose marriage was rocky. I thought
this was my future – mothering someone, serving
up food and gossip, stuck in a world of long
winters and too-short summers, friends with
the daughters of the women who mothered
me. Instead I ran away to a coast where summers
stretch long and fields are far away. There's still
the gathering of friends, the sharing of recipes
and gossip but we mother only our dogs
and sometimes each other.
of earth and sky and harsh winters.
Women who baked bread, the yeasty
smell rising on Thursday night, floured
hands punching it down so it could repeat
its growth and each Friday morning I woke
to the doughy scent, the butter melting
into golden pools for my breakfast. These
women washed and cleaned and cooked
for the Sunday potluck. They pickled
at the end of each summer, the steam turning
the kitchen into a sauna, the moisture
gathering on my mother's brow as she lifted
the jars out of the pressure cooker. And while
the men harvested the fields, traveled like
locusts from one farm to another, the women
traveled ahead, camping out in kitchens
to feed the hoard when they descended –
gallons of lemonade stirred, casseroles
and salads and cookies spread out
on the table for the men – their hands clean
but their faces dusty, the dirt worked into
the creases at the edges of their eyes. I carried
plates between the kitchen and the table,
replenished bread and condiments, listened
to the men talk about the work – what was
done and what remained, the price of wheat,
who would barely scrape by this year. The
mothers gossiped in the kitchen about who
missed church last Sunday, whose child
was failing, whose marriage was rocky. I thought
this was my future – mothering someone, serving
up food and gossip, stuck in a world of long
winters and too-short summers, friends with
the daughters of the women who mothered
me. Instead I ran away to a coast where summers
stretch long and fields are far away. There's still
the gathering of friends, the sharing of recipes
and gossip but we mother only our dogs
and sometimes each other.
ADVICE FOR FORMER SELVES
After Kate Baer
Take your pretty little 5-year plan and fold
it into a paper plane. Set it on fire and watch
it crash – remember, phoenix are born of flames.
it into a paper plane. Set it on fire and watch
it crash – remember, phoenix are born of flames.
Be wary of his apologies, he holds roses in one
hand, red flags in the other – both are brilliant
but full of thorns to make you bleed.
hand, red flags in the other – both are brilliant
but full of thorns to make you bleed.
Be grateful of every time your father calls
in the middle of the workday – to say hello,
to ask how to spell a word: mannequin,
wrestling, giraffe. By the time you arrive
he'll have lost the ability to speak and you'll
have deleted all the messages carrying his voice.
in the middle of the workday – to say hello,
to ask how to spell a word: mannequin,
wrestling, giraffe. By the time you arrive
he'll have lost the ability to speak and you'll
have deleted all the messages carrying his voice.
Revision is needed, edits are necessary. When
you emerge, fresh-skinned and breathing, feel
lucky to have survived. Remember after the long
winter the cherry blossoms always bloom – bright
pink against the stretching day light. And if not
for the budding leaves, a different tree entirely.
you emerge, fresh-skinned and breathing, feel
lucky to have survived. Remember after the long
winter the cherry blossoms always bloom – bright
pink against the stretching day light. And if not
for the budding leaves, a different tree entirely.
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