three poems

by Chantel Lavoie

mother-in-law’s tongue

NASA-approved, the snake plant

assists breathing, better

than other houseplants.

Leaves edged brown

don’t always signal

insufficient water, could

as easily indicate lack.

As with children.

How to pull them up

out of the soil of mothering

to check roots

for rot or drought?

Counsels contradict.

So much happens in the dark.

Routine, they say

is good for both.

But needs are seasonal

and everyone

you know

has done too much

and not enough.

Limen

Boyhood: The state of being a boy; the part of life in which we are boys.

This is perhaps an arbitrary word.

                          Samuel Johnson, A Dictionary of the English Language (1773)

They make a bet on the driveway

slamming car doors

while I wait, almost on tip-toe, just inside.

The not quite boys not quite men

wager on what my first words will be.

“Hello! Hello!” turns out both right

and true. “It’s one of your things,”

the son who triumphed says.

Dark already this June evening

after days of smoke from the North

the train from Toronto delayed

and every small light

waiting lit for them, soft music

five choices of tea, two of dessert.

One comes with his girlfriend

to show his childhood room

the souvenir cast

hard shadow of a broken hand

resting on the bookshelf

Percy Jackson and other heroes.

The not quite boys not quite men

come inside laughing at me

my arms reaching up, quizzical

smiling as I say “Hello! Hello!”

the butt of loving jokes

deep voices rumbling

inside manly chests

The miracle they haven’t died.

The tragedy they will.

Evolved

The last Manson girl-child in prison

whose arm, at 21, grew sore, stabbing

wakes every day, knowing

she’s a destroyer. She regrets.

Parole denied repeatedly

here she is again.

No risk at 77 to others

but that’s just one point

of punishment.

She’s not the same person

anymore, says a friend.

Further, We’re in a time

of growing recognition

of the impact of childhood

abuse and trauma (‘The Guardian’).

The past’s haunted by pasts

so watch those stones

lest your own arm grow sore.

Scans might reveal a scarred skull

or how glandular surges

spell disaster. If not

the science of today

then sometime soon.

A victim’s sister still

wants to be looked in the eye;

refused, concludes she

would see no remorse

in those windows.

Poor girl. Sick girl?

The old woman

plays guitar in prison

volleyball on a team

writes poetry.

None proof of goodness

but a better use

of her energy.

Photo of Chantel Lavoie

BIO: Originally from Saskatchewan, Chantel Lavoie now lives in Kingston, Ontario, where she is a professor at the Royal Military College. Her verse has appeared in journals like Arc, Canadian Literature, and Prairie Fire, as well as in three collections of verse: Where the Terror Lies (Quattro, 2012), This is about Angels, Women, and Men (Mansfield, 2021) and (with Meg Freer) Serve the Sorrowing World with Joy (Woodpecker Lane, 2020). Her first novel, The Boy in the Chimney, will be published early 2027 by Thistledown Press.