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.
Skirt by Lauren Kahle
The back, the flowiness, and the stitched seams
Spiraling down the shape of the long skirt
Colored with the ink, the dye of the Earth
Color explodes like the birth of the sun
Made by an older hippie woman who
Was probably conversing over a
Cup of tea, an herbal remedy
Puffing on a pipe, surrounded by incense
The drawstrings, the waistband, the frilly ends
Made by this woman, with intricate hands
In a home in the woods, surrounded by
Trees, birds, the creek, and the whisper of wind
In this house, in 1954
An old hippie was released to this world
A peaceful departure from a mother’s womb
Serenade of spiritual music
A miracle took place on that same day
A woman with purpose was created
Destined to lead a life of skirt making
Making a living out of a lifestyle
What more could one want on this bright journey
Than to never conform; to remain free
Her story is engraved in her artwork
A story comes with every item
Her journey is inlaid in the line work
The details and the pattern of her soul
Good vibes and emotion with every stitch
Purchasing a skirt, like buying a book
That can be worn around, and how lucky
Am I to have stumbled across it
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