Imagine
What My Body Will Sound Like
The dog is mouthing the ball, lying
with his back toward us, protecting
his toy from thieving hands. My husband
says, that sounds like the worst oral sex,
and we all groan and inevitably focus
on the noise. I think of porn, how
the women are always smooth-skinned
and hair-free, mouths wide and moaning
in faked pleasure. Women making noise
seems to be expected, demanded.
Once I was with a man who made no noise
when he fucked me, not a single slipped
whimper. When I’m alone, buzzing toy
in hand I make no noise, I don’t need
to impress or indulge myself. And when I cum –
eyes closed, entire body clenched in a tsunami
of pleasure – I don’t think of the noises
I could make, the quaking inside me
an ocean roaring in my ears.
Archaeologists
“We are all in
need of becoming archaeologists of the morning after.” ~ Pierre Joris
The next morning I wake, his breath
still deep and steady, his arm still heavy
across my body. I have a choice: ease
away from him and the night before
or curl back into him and solidify
the decision I made when the sky was filled
with stars. The sun is just now beginning
to peek through the curtains, just beginning
to creep across the bed toward our bodies,
revealing the detritus of last night: my smooth
skin, his large hand resting against my soft
thigh. Before I can move or make a decision
he wakes and pulls me closer, closing
the distance between us. Good morning beautiful,
he whispers into my ear. I melt into him, his lips
finding my neck, his hands excavating my heart.
Autumn
October is the best month
for dying – the trees give up
the fight, drop their leaves
like red and gold confetti.
The sun’s blade sharpens its
point, makes me squint when
I gaze into the deep blue,
the nearly-naked branches reaching
toward an ocean of crisp air.
Birds swim through the sky, leaving
for more forgiving temperatures.
I pull out my boots and sweaters
from the back of the closet, light
fires in the backyard, the flames
warming me enough that I nearly
don’t miss your embrace.
~ “The sun’s blade
sharpens its points” is borrowed from I Will Forgive by Anastasia Vassos
Morning
Tableau
I stand naked in my kitchen, lights off and blinds
open
waiting for my coffee to brew. I do this every
morning,
navigate my home in the dark because I refuse
to put on clothes after I shower. I keep
the lights off because I never remember to close
the blinds and my neighbors would have a perfect
view of my breasts, nipples hard in the cool morning
air, the heat turned down because I like it cold when
I sleep.
When the machine stops gurgling I pick up my coffee
mug,
feel the hot liquid travel down my throat, my skin
flush
from the sudden warmth. Sometimes I’m tempted
to turn the light on, to throw myself
into bright relief like a deer in headlights – to
capture
the beauty and starkness of the moment: my pale skin
bright, my coffee mug steaming, my surprised eyes
and smiling mouth – the perfect morning tableau.
Stiff
My dog used to lick the rug
compulsively – what she smelled
or tasted I’ll never know but
I knew I wouldn’t replace it till after
she was gone, she’d ruined
it so thoroughly I didn’t want
to buy a new one only for her
to do it again. Though I’d adopted
her years before I met my husband,
she’d crawled into his heart
and resided there till the end. We
wandered our now-quiet house, no
need to bundle up against the polar
vortex raging outside, no need for
early morning walks. We lit a fire
the day after she died, sat
on the couch and talked about her,
pulled up pictures and videos
on our phones. My husband’s bare
feet rested on the rug, mine curled
beneath me. We
can finally replace
the rug, he
said. I reached down,
rubbed my hand against the fiber
matted stiff from her saliva.
We laughed until we cried.
Construction
He built houses, moved from town
to town with his company. I met him
the summer I was nineteen – wild
and lean-limbed and tan. One night
we went to his job site, walked into
the skeleton of a house, climbed
the rail-less stairs to the second floor.
The roof would go on next week
but that night the stars were ours.
He spread the blanket and we lay
down, eyes cast upward till I rolled
on top of him. Every time he came
to town that summer he called me
and we fucked in unfinished houses,
christening each one before the owners
could. When the days grew shorter,
the nights cooler, he headed south, chasing
the work. Every time I drove past new
housing developments I thought of him,
his mouth on my skin, the sky wild
and bright around us.
Courtney LeBlanc is the author of Beautiful
& Full of Monsters (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), chapbooks All in
the Family (Bottlecap Press) and The Violence Within (Flutter
Press). She has her MBA from University of Baltimore and her MFA from Queens
University of Charlotte. She loves nail polish, tattoos, and a soy latte each
morning. Read her publications on her blog: www.wordperv.com. Follow her on
twitter: @wordperv, and IG: @wordperv79.