Three Poems
JENNIFER LeBLANC


Noon​

Noon is the hill you climb with the man you used to know.
Noon is the summit of the hill where you know

you will leave him because of this: noon is different
from evening. One is the pond you never see but know

is around the corner. The other is the window
            that acts as mirror. You know

he can see himself if he turns his head to the left.
One is static. The other changes with what you know

is called perspective. A man leans over a woman
and asks if she is alright. She knows

that she will leave him. She says yes.
This is evening, kissing him instead of saying
           what you both, in instinct, know.

After Jane Hirshfield's "The Heat of Autumn."






Pulse

The mountain whose name means bright,
          round fire overhead,
rose on our right until we turned
          and found the deer— dead.
Does it matter that I have said
you shielded my view from the deer,
          animal with hooves raised
and head thrown back? Here:
          I take away my love.
What happens to my thumb against your pulse?
What happens to the presentation of my mouth
turned up as a weed would reach for heat?
          It matters that I have promised
to tell the truth. I have said this—
we climbed the mountain whose name means bright,
          we left our brilliance there.






To the Man I Left​
December 31st

I need to become used to seeing you as my victim.
For so long, you were the man who trespassed against me.
The deer will be let down during the New Year celebration.
Men will drag the carcass to the woods. No one will see.

For so long, you were the man who trespassed against me
and I was the deer shot through with a biting bullet.
When they drag the carcass to the woods, no one will see
the changed face on the deer, the metamorphosis.

I have made you the deer shot through with a bullet,
the ammunition stamped with She loves him, she loves him not.
The changed face on the deer, the decadal metamorphosis
allowed the hunter to press his finger against the shot.

The ammunition was stamped with She loves him, she loves him not.
You held up your hand so that I could not see the deer.
The hunter pressed his finger against the shot.
I should have held down your hand, seen the creature.

You held up your hand so that I could not see the deer.
The deer will be let down during the New Year celebration.
I should have held down your hand, seen the creature.
I need to become used to seeing you as my victim.








JENNIFER LeBLANC earned a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Lesley University and a Bachelor of Arts in English from Regis College. Her work has appeared in CAIRN: The St. Andrews Review, Melusine, and other journals, and she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is at work on a collection of persona poems.
The Adirondack Review
SUMMER 2014