Susan Aizenberg
Triangle Waist Company
Emma, aged 16
I do fine work, my stitches delicate
as an eyelash. This earns
me a spot by the window. Dirty
as it is, some light filters
through. Rosie’s clumsy, her fingers
thick and fit only for rough
cloth stitched by gas lamp.
We buy our own needles, pay
the electric for our machines.
We rent the backless stools
we sit on. The bosses lock us in
and we’re searched
when we leave. Some girls
do steal—buttons, ribbons,
even whole shirts. But not Rosie
and me. Now all I have left
of her is the famous photo.
She stands unsmiling
beneath hand-lettered signs
tacked to the wall—
No back-talk, no stalling in the Ladies.
Don’t come late. Don’t leave early.
If you’re not here Sunday,
don’t come back on Monday—
beside her, and taller than she,
towering stacks of unfinished cloth,
her day’s quota, endless as the straw
the miller’s daughter had to spin.