by Catherine Anderson

    She slides over

    the hot upholstery

    of her mother's car，

    this schoolgirl of fifteen

    who loves humming & swaying

    with the radio.

    Her entry into womanhood

    will be like all the other girls'——

    a cigarette and a joke，

    as she strides up with the rest

    to a brick factory

    where she'll sew rag rugs

    from textile strips of kelly green，

    bright red， aqua.

    When she enters，

    and the millgate closes，

    final as a slap，

    there'll be silence.

    She'll see fifteen high windows

    cemented over to cut out light.

    Inside， a constant， deafening noise

    and warm air smelling of oil，

    the shifts continuing on. . .

    All day she'll guide cloth along a line

    of whirring needles， her arms & shoulders

    rocking back & forth

    with the machines——

    200 porch size rugs behind her

    before she can stop

    to reach up， like her mother，

    and pick the lint

    out of her hair.