North Dakota taught me fences aren't the only thing
keeping reckless girls contained. I could look up

into the darkest night I've ever seen, find the wash
of the Milky Way and still be stuck—1,000 acres

of expectations and un-harvested inheritance.
North Dakota taught me patience, the endless hours

to drive across the state, the days I spent on the road
when I finally escaped. I learned to drive there, my father

a terrible teacher who took me to the steepest road
in our neighborhood, then demanded I not roll

back when I put the car in first. That day left me
in tears and here I am, thirty years later, still writing

about it. It taught me it's not where you're from but who
you are and North Dakota taught me who I didn't want

to be: surrounded by people as white as the snow that falls
there, frozen in their beliefs, hearts too cold to open.

It's easy to hate the place I'm from but it taught me good
things too: I learned fallow fields will one day reap

the best harvest and to never get into a pen with pigs—
they can move faster than you think and bite through bone.

North Dakota taught me to never look back, to keep an eye
on the rearview mirror but never lose focus on what's ahead.

I learned what moonshine tastes like, what Rocky Mountain
oysters taste like. I cannot recommend either. And when I held

my father's ashes in my hand and let North Dakota reclaim him
I learned you can love a place and still never call it home.
 

—Courtney LeBlanc

Poet’s Website, Instagram, Facebook

< BACK | NEXT >

TABLE OF CONTENTS