In a Weigh Down Workshop once
I was taught to recognize true signs
of hunger.

They taught me
to stave off those feelings—

with a half glass of juice and a little prayer.

They said what I felt was
spiritual hunger, that I must learn to be fed
with spiritual food.

I lost thirty-six pounds.

————-—*

You say your nerves are shot.
You say you have a migraine.

Let’s plod on. Together,
let’s drag this dark barge of stories,

feel the heft
on our shoulders
and domesticated backs.

————-—*

Throughout history,
women have starved. And made up for it
with visions of divine ecstasy.

Pierced through by a golden arrow
of desire, Saint Teresa’s rapture
is carved in stone.

Saint Francesca Romana burned
her genitals with hot pork fat.

————-—*

I didn’t plan it—the way
my white dress clung to my body
as I rose from the water

and walked
dripping down the aisle—preteen bride
of Christ. I left

wet footprints on the worn red carpet
of that small church—
the pews of parents,

those terrifying girls.

 

 

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Lesley-Anne Evans is an Irish-Canadian poet with an MA in poetry from the Seamus Heaney Centre, Queen’s University Belfast. Her work appears in Poetry Ireland Review, Letters, Event, CV2, and elsewhere. Mute Swan (St. Thomas Poetry Series) is her first collection. www.laevans.ca

 

 

 

Photo by Yuheng Ouyang on Unsplash