THE BUCKLEY SHIRTWAIST FACTORY
- St. Louis, 1904
Last night I dreamed of sewing;
today stitches form footprints,
a road. I follow them to the river,
miles of rippling blue cotton.
I sew this dream into a ruffle,
my exhaustion into the hem, wonder
if the lady who buys this dress
will feel my thoughts in the threads.
The treadle machine clicks its only word:
faster, faster, faster, faster.
The fabric blurs; hours stitch along.
The windows turn black.
The floor is buttoned to the ceiling.
Time is an amputated sleeve
holding me to this chair.
I stitch day to night,
life to the back of death,
try to distinguish the difference.
--Patty Dickson Pieczka
