Nancy Lee

Covenant, Junior High

We met by the back sink of the fourth floor girls’ can.
Rosa kept the razor in a patchwork pencil case. Each time,
we were surprised by handle’s cold weight, solemn as we
 
unscrewed the blade. We took turns, raised arms, let hands
etch tiny Xs into the baby flesh beneath our biceps, wadded
paper towel over blood. A blight for Jiffy Marker scrawl
 
that swore we were hot fucks, a hex for the boys who trapped us
outside the gym, made us flash our bras, a pox on the cologned
teacher who rubbed our backs while checking homework.
 
Xs itched in the heat of armpits, hardened scabs we picked
and peeled; each day, new burdens, new crosses. We promised
to live alone, marry jobs, love a test tube baby. We got
 
the same wash ’n wear haircut, the same bossy black
Oxfords. We tried not to panic when we saw Philipa
laughing at Jimmy B.’s jokes in the cafeteria, or Elaine
 
kissing Danny W. in the band room, clarinet in pieces
at her feet. Or Tracy with Roger H. by the Ancient Worlds
shelf in the library, horn-rims cocked sloppily on her
 
cheek, his pale flakey hands up the front of her shirt.
Warm pipes, leaky sinks, echo of mildewed tile, our rituals
dwindled, until the day Rosa confessed she had lost
 
the razor, pencil case ransacked by Mark G.
who was taking her to the movies on Saturday night.
Skin thickened, hair grew, Xs faded to rumour,
 
whispered warnings, faint ink on divorce papers,
restraining orders, police reports. The lighter the mark,
the deeper the cut, and no one’s blood to console us.




--
Nancy Lee is the author of two critically acclaimed books, Dead Girls (McClelland & Stewart, 2002), a collection of short stories, and The Age (McClelland & Stewart, 2014), a novel. Her poetry has appeared in Canadian Literature, Event Magazine, Prism International, and The Fiddlehead. She lives in Steveston, B.C. with her husband, the author John Vigna.