Jan Beatty

We’re sitting in Uncle Sam’s Subs, splitting a cheesesteak, when Shelley says: I think I should buy a gun. I look up at her puffy face, and she’s staring, her hands shaking. On medication for schizophrenia, she’s serious. I say,Tell me why you need a gun. Her voice getting louder:You know why. No, no I don’t, I say. In case I need it. I might need it to shoot somebody. I give her a hard look —You don’t need a gun. No one is after you.

You want to know what work is? I’ll tell you what work is: Work is work. You get up. You get on the bus. You don’t look from side to side. You keep your eyes straight ahead. That way nobody bothers you—see? You get off the bus. You work all day. You get back on the bus at night. Same thing. You go to sleep. You get up. You do the same thing again. Nothing more. Nothing less. There’s no handouts in this life. All this other stuff you’re looking for— it ain’t there. Work is work.

An eater, or swallowhole, is a reach of stream or a tidal area given to violent currents and waves that often upset and/or suck under boats and kayaks and the like as they are attempting passage. — William Kittredge The eater, my birthmother, was speaking: I can’t tell you his name.

After Roselia Foundling Asylum and Maternity Hospital, 
corner of Cliff and Manilla This is the house I was born in. Look at it. Asylum. Narrate it: Notice the sloping cornice, look at the curved windows, etc. This is the house I was born in. The cast-iron balconies / not wide enough for bodies. Look at the photos: 3 stories, 8 front windows and a wide door. Dark red brick / inlaid with brown stone. Women’s bodies / expelling  / banishing  / Leaving the babies there. Look at the photos, include the photos.