Our mothers left us, Here’s 
A piece of fruit, or an end loaf of bread where 
We chewed it with our missing teeth. They 
Walked across Canal Street to make 

The shoes, to sew on the machines. The 
Men who tanned the leather good 
Like the belts our fathers thrashed us, work 
Was bread, & our feet wore shoes 

The company men handout out near Christmas. In 
Our mother’s hands, the thread flew, the 
Rows of stitchers, & then not too long 
At ten we put aside our dolls for brick 

Rooms of spinners, heelers, buildings 
Of bobbins we attended to beside 
The rows. I lost my pinky finger there. The 
Hides unloaded day & night from black trucks down the road.

Cotton from the gin. The dust we breathed &
Shimmered. We were never full. We ate raw grain 
We stole at the dock. We were oil-resistant, 
Stained & bruised, skin like leathers.

We gathered up on Sundays, Bless 
The Lord, our one good dress given, our tiny 
Hands held the rosaries & asked the bones 
We’d broke to better heal. In the stained-glass light, in 

The dust that shimmered, sharp as glass, the 
Lord forgot us—the foreman hit our ankles 
With a thrash if we worked slow & 
There were welts like Christ’s on our feet.