a ghost in a field where no one goes

By Amy LeBlanc

We take the scarecrow from his perch:
plaid jacket and a Geiger counter
as a boutonniere. I smell pine and isopropyl
alcohol with the jacket in my hands,
fibers between my fingers, bits of
straw float up my nose. He was posed
against two poles, a lopsided crucifix:
a ghost in a field where no one goes.
 
His eyes
buttons
his mouth
twine,
we grab him from behind
and feel dried grass in the body cavity,
a nail driven through the sole of the foot
for drainage in rainy seasons—
mud through a rubber boot.
 
I unbutton the shirt like I might
unbutton my lover’s shirt and
in my hands I hold a heart
made of red cedar—a moth
sleeps in a carved aorta and
larvae eat at the bark.

---

A small painting of a single eye

By Amy LeBlanc

When we began
I gave you strands
of my hair glutted with
dandruff and mildew
and tied with twine.
 
You let them unravel
in your coat pocket.
 
You check the time
and are reminded of me;                                 
 
            the fur in the crown
            bow
            and latch release.
 
                        Dial up
 
            Dial down.
 
Now, I give you
a small painting
of a single eye.
 
A likeness of my arch
framing lashes
in rose gold,
a pearl
for you to wear
in a locket
on a chain
around your neck
 
            like braided thread
            a little death
            a mourning cloak.
 
                        Wear my eye
                        on your body
                        like a pallbearer.
 
When I am gone,
consult a manual
to mourn me correctly.

---

Undead Juliet at the Museum

By Amy LeBlanc

Juliet wipes fingerprints
from the glass case
 
Inside she finds:
 
            a lamb’s heart with rusted nails in the aorta
            a pincushion that looks like your ex-lover
            a wreath of brown hair on an ivory plate
            a set of salmon teeth.
 
The skin between her fingers
tugs and above her head
a magpie nest rests in the rafters.
The mother dives at museum guests
but not at Juliet. Her father used to say
things belong in a museum when they are dead.
 
But Juliet is undead— 
yes, her fingers might
be blue and her eyes need daily
reinflation, but the glass cases
must be cleaned. Fingerprints
leave behind too much information
especially on the inside
of the glass cases. The mother
magpie refutes the platitude. Juliet
is undead, magpies are spectral,
and a museum is a cannonade
of dust and cinder and hair.

---

Immune system malfunction

By Amy LeBlanc

First, we deprive the host of lilac
and turmeric until her antibodies
dwindle and shrink.
 
Saltines and water wrench
a sword from the left side
while night sweats counter chills.
 
Blood vessels burst from
stomach to thighs.
 
A fire blight, a bloat,
a pressure—red
hinterland rivers bleed
beneath her belly button,
a controlled burn: her
genetic birthright—her
turn to hemorrhage.
 
Her bone marrow will splinter
and seep toward the toes,
through boat sails, pavement,
bread and earth crusts.
 
We trust that softening steroids
might save blood cells but
the body is a candy wrapper
and the mind is a wicker basket.

---

Amy LeBlanc is an MA student in English Literature and creative writing at the University of Calgary and Managing Editor at filling Station magazine. Amy's debut poetry collection, I know something you don’t know, was published with Gordon Hill Press in March 2020. Her novella "Unlocking" will be published by the UCalgary Press in their Brave and Brilliant Series in 2021.  Her work has appeared in Room, PRISM International, and the Literary Review of Canada among others. She is a recipient of the 2020 Lieutenant Governor of Alberta Emerging Artist Award.