into arguments.
I lift the mirror to my eyes
wipe specks of black grit
onto the pristine cloth,
wipe the day’s slander
from my cheeks.
so easy
Does a bone break easier
on a cold autumn day
when leaves crunch under boot heels
and frost forms
on anything
that stands still, even for a moment?
If they strike me today,
will my bones shatter
like an icicle
falling from a rooftop
smashing against the ground?
In the summer,
I felt strong as an ox
dragging the plow behind me,
carving the way to a better life.
Now I am the chaff
left behind
covered in hoar:
brittle
exposed
so easy to break.
fresh
Worry
is getting in the way
of Joe’s smile.
He notices
though I try not to wince
or whimper
if I take a wrong step
if I bump against
the fresh bruises
on my shoulders,
he notices
how much
how often
those gorillas hurt me.
I cannot stop now
so what is the point
of saying,
I am worried,
too.
fists
Every night has a sound.
Some nights
it is a muted lullaby
seeping through a crack
in a street-side window
that keeps time with my steps.
Some nights
it is the papery whispers
of bat wings swooping
between buildings.
Some nights
it is the calm
quiet
of glittering stars.
Once I even heard an owl hooting—
what could an owl want
in this falling-down forest
of tenements?
But the sound of this night
is footsteps.
And not only mine.
First it was one set
stepping out from the shadows
falling in
following
behind me.
Then a second
set of footsteps,
heavier
faster
closing in.
I whip around
to face their fists
to throw my own
in return.
They do not speak
but their message is
painfully
clear
slap scratch
punch pummel
kick kick spit
until the only sound
is footsteps running away
blood dripping
pooling
on pavement.
Gorky
I wake in a cot
at the hospital,
bandages swaddling
my head.
I turn
toward the wan light
from the single, high window
above me.
My vision is blurred,
sleep-slurred
a small
feathered
body
stirs,
shakes its wings,
lifts off the windowsill.
After Mama and Papa have gone,
Joe
sits on the edge of my cot.
He pulls a slim volume
from his breast pocket
and begins to read:
Over the gray plain of the sea
winds are gathering the storm-clouds
Between the thunder and the sea
proudly soars the stormy petrel,
a streak of sable lightning
Now his wing the wave caresses,
now he rises like an arrow
cleaving clouds
and crying fiercely
I fall asleep again
tears wetting the pillow
beneath my bruised head.
visitors
Nathan comes to visit,
clears his throat once,
twice.
I reach out a hand
and a smile;
he takes it
sets a pair of library books
on the table beside my hospital bed
with a smile for me, too.
Benjamin trails in behind him
presses a clouded blue orb
into my palm
nestles in
beside me.
By the second week
I can sit up,
read for a few minutes
at a time,
talk a little to the reporters
who line my bedside,
practice the twist
and flick
of thumb and wrist,
sending Benjamin’s marble
rolling across
the hummocks and canyons
of the coarse hospital
blanket.
I measure my health
each day
not by the doctor’s consultation
but by the breadth
of Joe’s smile.
electric
The whole city is alive tonight.
Pauline wheels me to the hospital window
to a view of the sidewalks below
crammed with people
marveling
at Mr. Edison’s incandescent bulbs
marching rank and file
across bridges
under arches
to the tops of towers
touching the sky.
Even a huge harvest moon
seems pale tonight.
Just think,
Pauline says,
if thousands of tiny lights
can outshine the moon,
is there anything
thousands of us
cannot do?
suffrage
The morning of my last day
in the hospital
when I wake from a nap
the foot of my bed is lined with women
who have the same
hawk’s gaze
that I see in the mirror
each morning.
They did not come looking for a victim
for a charity case
they came looking for a soldier
a compatriot
a comrade.
They, who fight for votes
we, who fight for rights
may be fighting
the same battle
after all.
holiday
The union gives me light work
my first day out of the hospital.
Pauline and I sit
on a pair of cushioned chairs.
A banner stretches
between us;
we stitch one letter at a time
W E S H A L L F I G H T U N T I L W E W I N
drifting gradually
to the center.
She pulls the needle
out from between her lips
and says,
When this is all over
let’s take a holiday
in the country.
You can bring your Joe,
she says,
I will bring my Frieda.
We will eat grapes
and soft cheeses
nap like ladies of leisure
in meadows stitched
with wildflowers
while silly birds
with no real business at hand
twitter and flit
above us.
starve quick
My first day back
on the picket line
a reporter
asks a question
then puffs breaths into his hands
to keep them warm enough
to scratch the pencil across
his steno pad.
Why do you do this?
he asks.
Isn’t it better to make some money
in the shop
than to make nothing
out here
marching in the snow
dodging insults and billy clubs?
We keep moving
to stay warm
tossing answers
over our shoulders.
We will starve either way.
They will harass us either way.
If our only choice is to starve quick
or starve slow,
we choose quick.
No wonder,
he says with a laugh,
no wonder they call you
a pint
of trouble.
together
At the end of a long day
at the union office,
a familiar
hopeful smile
beneath an off-kilter flat cap
waits for me
to walk with me
to my night class.
Joe
has no interest
in English classes
and yet
he is here.
The gorillas may hide
around any corner
and yet
he is here.
When I am with him,
I can feel my spine
unbowing,
the weight stacked
on my slight shoulders
sloughing off.
My breath trips
my heart flips into my throat,
but I remember that word
with its bars and barbs
[wife]
I see the same
wariness
in his eyes.
This thing
that pulls us together
frightens us both
and yet
he is here.
We walk
on cobbled streets,
updrafts of air
pulling away the space
between us
until our shoulders
brush together
with each step.
gorillas
We pace two by two
in front of the door,
huddled together
to break the freezing rain,
singing,
our breath streaming behind us
like clouds trailing behind
a steam engine:
As we come marching, marching
we bring the greater days,
the rising of the women
means the rising of the race!
I hear the footsteps coming
from a block away.
Stand fast, girls!
I shout.
That is all I can get out
before I am driven to my knees
by a fist in the gut.
I am gasping
to draw
a single
breath—
I do not even feel
the blows to my chin
and cheek
all I can think is
I
can
not
breathe
the girls are screaming
clawing at the thugs
with their bare hands.
By the time my breath returns,
the police are dragging me
toward the back of the wagon.
They throw us inside
and bolt the door.
Pauline and I reach out
clasp hands
in the darkness.
farbrente
I am little more
than five feet tall
but my will
is like leaping flames
vaulting skyward
immune to all
that would
smother me.
judgment
The Jefferson Market Courthouse
on Sixth Avenue
is a forgery of a Gothic castle;
its aristocratically sloped roofs
and grand spiraling stair
ill suited
to render justice
to those of us who toil
in the muck and muddle
of this mean life
below.
My shirtwaist is rumpled
untucked
I can feel the new scab
at my temple
opening
and I only hope
it does not bleed
down my cheek
drip
on the only thing
I have to wear
to the picket line tomorrow.
In the courtroom,
we stand
hands clasped behind our backs
chins thrust up;
defiant.
Does the magistrate
behind his hallowed bench
know the punishment that waits for me
within the walls
of my own home—
how Mama’s lips
pinch together,
how Papa will not look me in the eyes
anymore?
Does he not understand
that
is punishment enough?
The magistrate steeples his fingers
like a man in prayer
You are striking
against God and Nature,
whose law is that
man
shall earn his bread
by the sweat
of his brow.
You are on strike against God!
If you ask me,
God knows
what little bread we get
is nothing close
to what we have earned
for all that
sweat.
too much
For the first time
they hold me overnight
in jail;
I sleep on a bed of wooden slats
where at least
my skirt hangs free
of the rats that scrabble
in the corners.
In the morning, bail is paid by society ladies
sent by the union to scold our jailers
and set us free.
Outside, the sun is too bright
to open my eyes fully.
I shuffle blindly home.
One look
and the worry
drains from Mama’s face.
She sets the kettle on the stove
pulls the washbasin into the bedroom
beckons me to
sit
on the corner of the bed.
She unbuttons my shoes
lifts my shirt over my head
helps me step out of my skirt.
In the absence of words
her hands give voice
to the things
she cannot say
out loud.
She fills the basin
places a rag and a round of soap in my hand
before backing away
closing the door behind her,
before the sorrow in her eyes
can spill onto her cheeks.
Goose bumps rise on my arms and legs
as I shed the last layer
step into the water,
steam curling up my
bruised
swollen skin.
The girls have been disappearing.
Condemned to the workhouse prison
on Blackwell’s Island.
Every day
I am sure
I will not come home
at all.
But for me?
Bruise
break
arrest
release
each time.
I have been here before,
felt the horror
and the relief
when they loosed their holy vengeance
on the town next to mine
and I was free
to escape.
The shame is
too much
too much.
I crouch in the bottom of the basin
quivering
my breath choking
on the steam
on the pent-up
release
of relief.
picnic
Dusk has turned to dark,
the papers
membership cards
banners
picket signs
all put away for the night.
I just have time
to hurry home for a glass of milk
to keep my stomach quiet
for the night ahead.
I pull on my coat
mittens
hat
scarf,
the door feels
uncommonly heavy
as I push it open
against
the biting wind.
I do not set
even a step outside
before
Joe
ushers me back inside
out of the cold,
his flat cap
tilted to shield the wind
from his face,
his lips curling upward
as if they hope
to be given a reason
to smile.
The door slips through my fingers,
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