Poisoned by S.A. Leger

Sunday afternoon blizzard on the easternmost point
of North America—early mountain standard
means my Momma’s at church. I can’t sleep late anymore.
Instead I mope, cast hard shadows on blue & purple walls,
walls we tried to paint grey. The cold calls me back to bed
against you. Helios struggles to rise as dust moats fly
off our skin. You smell like fields. On second thought
you smell like rich things not real in nature. I frown at soil
imbedded deep under my nails, last night’s eyeliner raised
across my temple, a mean streak—“you look like Alice Cooper”
my Momma’d say. Funny, I think as I hum “Poison”
into your half-awake ears. Everything Momma thought was bad
ain’t so bad & everything good, well—

I slide my hand across your ribs. You are nothing I can’t handle.
On second thought I don’t know if I’m up to it. My Momma
is sittin’ up straight in church & I’m here with you—
leg cleaving a lost space between your shins, the dog,
what we have. I get so mad at my Momma sometimes
I could scream. On second thought, I’d like to bury
my face in her coat—almond extract. I kiss your neck.
My Momma hands me $3 for every bucket of pie cherries
I pick. When will I stop cleaving? Like a cell divided
I am with you & I am ok.

S.A. Leger is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize-nominated writer and scientist from Newfoundland, Canada. Her poems have most recently appeared in or are forthcoming from The Malahat Review, SWWIM, The Hopkins Review, and Conduit. She spends her days exploring the 47th parallel with her wife and dachshund.

13 May 2024