The road is mud slick and root tangled,
so I park and walk, sinking with each step.
In some places, the pine trees reach for me,
long needles smothering
the late afternoon sun into shadows.
When I get there, I find
the worn covered bridge creaks
with each turn of the wind,
and the wooden floorboards.
Everything looks ready to tumble
under any weight, even that of a ghost.
I’ve heard the stories. Some say
that a young unwed mother threw
her baby over the railing
and then hung herself from the rafters.
Others say that she flung herself
over the side, her baby wrapped to her chest.
They all say that she haunts this place,
weeping and searching for her child.
Her wails are always part of the story.
I stay here for a few minutes, seeing nothing
but shadows, hearing nothing but the gentle
ripples of the creek that flow past me.
Back when I was in eighth grade, I found
a pregnant classmate crying in art class,
her hands smudged with coal she was using
to draw, her fingertips the same shade
as the mascara streaked on her face.
She disappeared two months later.
I wonder why I am thinking of her now.
![](resources/Karen%20Weyant%20headshot.jpg.opt225x225o0%2C0s225x225.jpg)
Karen J. Weyant's poems have been published in Chautauqua, Fourth River, Rattle, and River Styx. Her first book of poetry is Avoiding the Rapture (Riot in Your Throat Press, 2023). She is an Associate Professor of English at Jamestown Community College in Jamestown, New York.