The women in my family talk about marble rolling

pins and marriage with the humor of stubbed toes.

“Keep that cast iron skillet handy,” they say

in the presence of a new husband.

My grandma tells the story of the woman who rose

at midnight to prepare a meal on demand

for her slurring husband and his posse of drunk friends.

My mother hears this story and her head shakes, carries

three generations of “No, no, no,” though not

unwounded. The women in my family believe

a skirt above the knee is a sign scrawled across my

body, an invitation and an opening for every loss.

They tell stories about the Bukovinian ancestor

who, one moon-shine night, cut off his wife’s baby finger.

And the same day their voices strain with fear of women

standing high in pulpits, believing God’s voice would break

such vessels. I carry the dangers they stir

deep while autumn promise simmers

on the stove. The women in my family talk about marriage

and rolling pins, their voices the color of bruised apples.

Sarah Wallace graduated in 2018 from the Burman University English and Scholars programs. She is currently a master’s student in English and Creative Writing at the University of New Brunswick.

Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash

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