Three Poems by Leah Noble Davidson



None of her lovers died.

They just moved out
and became different people.

So she had to imagine them,
one, flickering in the kitchen with a peanut butter sandwich,
another in the bathroom
staring at her
while she applied mascara.

And, because they were not them, but her ghosts,
they did not say
what they would have said,

but terrible things
she said to herself in their name.

So she was never alone and always alone
with her ghosts.



Drinking Whiskey On My Front Porch After Another Break-Up

I see construction workers across the street
removing heavy pieces of the house’s insides.
The one in shorts speaks only Spanish.
He carries a pipe
for turning the water on and off
and I think, “He could kill me with that pipe,”
but he doesn’t.



The First Time I Kissed A Girl

I wrecked a car.
I stood-up for a thing.
My palms pickled.

There was a magic box
of brightly colored plastic flashlights
behind me
flashing off and on
like lightning bugs.

I couldn’t hear anything–
especially alarm bells.

My mother sighed, embarrassed again.
My shoes were big ole buckets;
they lived above my ankles.

I bent my neck.



Cover image by Mi Mitrika via Flickr (cc)

About the Author:

Leah Noble Davidson’s work addresses how we understand our world through the perception of words. She has two books published by University of Hell Press: Poetic Scientifica (2013), a one-poem book with a 120-page glossary, and DOOR (2016), a book about one word. Leah has toured the US with her poetry and has been featured in a number of publications. She now lives in Portland, Oregon.