Advice for Women on the Graveyard Shift

Click here to read Karen Weyant's poem online at Broadsided.

The Girl Who Carved Jesus into Her Forearm

On that first morning she didn’t wear bandages,
I watched her tuck a loose strand of hair
behind her ear, her right sleeve
slipping to her elbow—the faint loop
of the final S curved around the edge
of her sweater, but the U sharp,
almost a V, the J distorted
as if she had trouble with the blade.
The night before I had been warned
not to stare, and don’t ask any questions—
my mother’s voice low and firm like on those days
we went grocery shopping and she would yank
me away from Old Mr. Cummings
who stood on the corner of Main Street
yelling that Satan was in the five-n-dime again.

But it was hard not to watch
the star pupil in our Sunday School class
who now sat straight in front of me
in Friday homeroom, her fingers
twirling a No. 2 pencil like a thin baton.
It was hard not to think about
how the raw name turned red.
So instead, I focused on all my prayers
that God hadn’t answered—some things
all seventh graders must ask for, like an A
on a prealgebra pop quiz or perfect teeth
without the taste of braces,
and some things that had to be different
like more money on paydays,
so my parents would stop fighting.
I wondered if it worked—bleeding
in order to get God’s attention.

:: Karen Weyant, Stealing Dust (2009)

Canning Season

My mother’s August was a kitchen of steam,
sweat, and vegetables. Corn and peas
piled high in the sink, on the counters,
even the windowsills. Mason jars balancing,
canning wax hot, dripping. Vapor blew
from the pressure cooker, a shrill whistle
that made everyone cringe. I watched
from the doorway, the kitchen off limits,
normal chores excused. Stealing
my cousin’s communion veil, I practiced.
For weeks, television had been a blur
of royal weddings and a princess tucked
behind lace, her face a shadow beneath a veil.
I watched gray tangles of hair sneak
from my mother’s loose ponytail, her hands
a web of blue veins, and I knew my real parents
were royalty. I only needed more proof.
Shoving carrots and cauliflower
underneath the sheets, I stretched
out my bed, watched the dog nudge
the mattress, and waited for mosquito bites
I scratched red and raw, to turn black and blue.

:: Karen Weyant, Stealing Dust (2009)