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ISSUE #19

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

 
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