by Jennifer LeBlanc
I start where I was borne out of my sadness,
the Maine coast where the veil was lifted and I could suddenly see again,
like after a light is switched on in a long-dark room,
the shapes of the blue sea glass vases in the neighbor’s window,
the rail of the widow’s walk, the gentle sweep
of gulls and pitch of their screech, wheeling over the sound,
there where I lifted my hands as in a portrait of Magdalen
and said take this from me, because I cannot hold anymore
the worry and the counting, like accounting for lives,
where, as my mother strained water from pasta in the summer house,
making use of the galley kitchen as if it were her own,
I waded out alone into the sea and felt peace,
the entirety of it taking me in, gently, the way I am,
as years later on the beach at midnight in the tropics,
the quiet unfurl of surf as we hold hands walking
through the foam, here, where I am again composed.
Jennifer LeBlanc earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University. Her first full-length book, Descent, was published by Finishing Line Press (2020) and was named a Distinguished Favorite in Poetry (2021) by the Independent Press Award. Individual poems have been published or are forthcoming in journals such as Consequence, Solstice, Nixes Mate Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, and J Journal. Jennifer is a poetry reader for Kitchen Table Quarterly. She was nominated for a 2013 Pushcart Prize and works at Harvard University.
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