S. A. Leger


S. A. Leger (Canada)


Lying in snow&static, chests half full. Stem breaks, car passes. Tightening                           handful of snow&lycra. Handful of couch, of bed. Pull at them with my fingers, knuckles white,                   I don’t know I’m smearing my makeup. Trees creaking, snow absorbing. I’m imagining this                      


All day in Bacon Cove, disconnected from seedpods&shale, how they were formed             grains of black. My fingertips sting like they did when I was a seedpod. Cross-country skiing           dad took me back to the car to warm my hands. Smell air above snow&silence—it’s just


how you’ve imagined it. Your shampoo&2PMeyes. The beach in the Dominican. Stop looking for ways to get out of the sun. Sit down, grab up handfuls of sand until knuckles pale.                I look at you lying in snow&gravity, you in the twilight. Teeth must be cold


but you’re smiling. Everyone devolves for photographs—no one can see the way they smile when they don’t intend to. I smell Russian Olives&UVrays. I know they’re down in the swamp near the river. But all I can think about is smoldering desert&bonemarrow.


We, scared of numbness in snow. Scared of numbness&void that takes the snow’s place       when we go inside. Maybe we rinse our legs off, worrying&fucking—I have no idea               I’m afraid of the snow part being over


I count the fence posts on the way to Delta&dread. Rub the alkali over my forearms. Why     can’t we ever outlast the Labrador Current? Drown them in a bucket of creosote so they won’t splinter&peel. You, many things now. I guess maybe you’re mostly happy. I’m imagining this                                                        


I’ve already climbed the apple tree near the road. I’m at the top—there’s a dog barking     come down. You, trust&promise that it doesn’t mean something. Don’t you know                       Circadian Rhythms? It will be just as you say. It will smell fresh&unopened


air crisp and you content. I will think up a universe—I wonder what an entire room                    of my mother’s coats smells like. Pull you under. Want embers&still hot ashes, want you             stay here. It doesn’t hurt as much as the alternative



S.A. Leger is a bird-obsessed biologist and poet from Hotchkiss, Colorado. After studying zoology and English at Colorado State University, she spent time taking in the flora and fauna of Tasmania, the islands of Puget Sound during her masters, and for the last six years, Newfoundland. Leger currently works as a biology lab professor at Memorial University in Canada.


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