Shop Is for Boys
by Brenda Davis Harsham

I’ll tell you a secret.
When I was a girl,
shop class was for boys.
They sawed, hammered
and sanded birdhouses.
In place of shop,
I learned to make a roux
and divide recipes by two.
I pretended not to be
jealous, but I was.

One steamy summer,
I signed up for sculpture.
I wanted to carve.
I wanted to weld.
I wanted to create
structures taller than me.

I started with wood —
four glued-together,
two-inch-thick boards of
heavy mahogany.
The bandsaw looked big
enough to slice off my arm.
But I carved off corners
as if I knew what to do.
I chiseled, swinging
my mallet with arms that
grew stronger every day.
My gouge released curls of wood.
The scent of fresh wood
intoxicated.
The belt sander screamed
like death itself. My bird took
shape as I sweated,
stopping…