A Space for Writers of the World
Rana Plaza Factory collapse, April 24, 2013
It was the place that made me. It was the place
where I came stitched and sewn, seam
to perfect seam. I am precisely
what I was made to be. I hang straight, the sheen
of my tuxedo-edged lapel shining
in the slightest dusty light of your closed closet.
I remember the hands that flew me quick and sure
up one side, around the cuff, then off
to another pair of hands, swift, moth-like
as the flutter of my striped lining was laid
within me. Blue and white stripes run
my well-lined sleeves, under the buttons punched on
so fast I couldn’t feel the puncture. They must
have felt such pain. Can you imagine it?
You know that whirring of the spools. The sound
of both our childhoods. Every gorgeous
cast-off blouse, irregular, snuck home
in your grandfather’s delicate hands.
You have his fingers. It was
the place that made me. Now I am here,
in your home-place, and they who threaded
my every inch are ground to rocky dust.
The heavy hum and rumble stopped.
Let me out of this dark place. Put me on,
my mourning color. What,
did you think you would not feel it?