Sisterhood By: Mylinh Nguyen

Sisterhood

By: Mylinh Nguyen

Ripped knees, torn seams, a little faded blue.

Teared in many different places, held out

by four different faces, around the world.

Scuffed end and trailing bell bottoms. Dragging

to the ground, sagging to the dirt, slugged

all around. These aren't just regular jeans,

but the stories behind the sisterhood.  

Four girls and one jean that can fit them all.

Each detail has an untold story.

From every thread and shred, it brought them to-

gether. Through the ups and the downs, these jeans

kept them within. They would take turns with these

lucky faded jeans, it gave them strength to

carry on and live life to the fullest.

As these lucky jeans become old and rugged,

Their friendship becomes dim, fighting for who

gets the last of it. Tugging and pulling,

these once lucky jeans that fit them all is

no more. Fighting and bickering they go

their separate ways. These jeans were the sisterhood.

Four girls, one jean, from strangers to sisters.

They realize that the jeans meant nothing more.

Apologizing to each other,

strangers became sisters again and their

friendship continues to grow from here.

  

_______________________________________________________

Shirt

By: Robert Pinsky

The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams,

The nearly invisible stitches along the collar

Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians

Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break

Or talking money or politics while one fitted

This armpiece with its overseam to the band

Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter,

The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union,

The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze

At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.

One hundred and forty-six died in the flames

On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes--

The witness in a building across the street

Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step

Up to the windowsill, then held her out

Away from the masonry wall and let her drop.

And then another. As if he were helping them up

To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.

A third before he dropped her put her arms

Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held

Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once

He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared

And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down,

Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers--

Like Hart Crane's Bedlamite, "shrill shirt ballooning."

Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly

Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked

Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme

Or a major chord.  Prints, plaids, checks,

Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans

Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian,

To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed

By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,

Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers

To wear among the dusty clattering looms.

Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,

The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter

Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton

As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:

George Herbert, your descendant is a Black

Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma

And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit

And feel and its clean smell have satisfied

Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality

Down to the buttons of simulated bone,

The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters

Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape,

The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.