Ann Fisher-Wirth
Women’s Wear Daily
for my mother
After her parents die and her sister dies
and the man she loves ships out
to she doesn’t know where—
for the Army censors make lace of his letters—
she sells the house in Omaha,
takes her third-grade daughter out of school,
moves to New York to study fashion,
and starts her job at the magazine.
Today, she has stayed late at work. Her scarlet nails
click on the typewriter keys. It’s hot,
her navy-blue polka-dot crêpe de chine dress
clings to her legs, she smooths her damp hair
away from her forehead. Soon she’ll leave,
take the subway to her daughter
in White Plains. The landlady will join them,
they’ll have petits fours and ice cream.
Suddenly she hears blaring horns
and shrieks of rapture.
She rushes to the window. Tickertape
fills the sky. Below her in the streets
people pour from every building.
She turns on the radio, listens,
puts her head on her desk,
and sobs,
alongside her typed description
of a bride in Brooklyn,
the dress of peau de soie,
lilies-of-the-valley the bouquet.