Keep Your Scissors Sharp and Your Eye on the Belt

Keep Your Scissors Sharp and Your Eye on the Belt:

A Mother’s Substitute, Factory Floor

Needing to save her mother’s space, weeks later she leans out

to the cool  dark:30 to listen to the pitch of each

factory whistle, those six or so in town and

the one that calls them.  

Because she’s the one whose holding

her mother’s

spot while some salvage, maybe?, recovers?

Who can?

And all the factory women say take

as much time as you need

and the floor boss but not too long.

So the shrill whistle.  The fast packed

pail all tea and bread and what all

else could be shoved into it.  And

because she’s told not

to be one of those girls who go

table to table when she’s late, she walks early,

she’s standing in line next to the old women

who smell like church on Monday morning

and grease and vein and brain by

Monday afternoon.

She needs to be:

            in line to have her scissors sharpened,   

            to have Dotty tape her fingers,

            and stand next to her, and not

            the woman

            who hoards and heaps

            the fish in front of her like she’s a goose

            and this brood is hers, like she could save

            them only those drowning

            again. 

            Don’t drift with scissors

            in your hand honey.

But against the glass

            reflection she absolutely

            sees she’s floating in pink

            mother-of-pearl.  In funeral

            lace.  She pitches in sick

nausea.  It’s boats.  It’s steam heat

it’s sway of the gray dead …she squeezes the sharp

blades closed.  She breathes the blood

and oil, it’s raw and those dead are staring straight

at her. 

Listen: everyone here had someone

who had someone who was on

Cal’s boat.  In the clang and bang,

when the passing foreman gives

a quick wink to the girl on the end

of the belt

while

the women have a Monday night twelve hours standing

mouth, a God-Damn-It shit and piss

mouth so when the hoarder pushes

this girl out of the line when she’s falling on fish

and spit.  When she’s spitting in it, the other women fly

             to her, it’s: Listen you bitch!

            There’s fish enough

            for all of us.  You leave this girl

            alone.  You didn’t lose a soul

            at that lake.  Her mother’s lost

            plenty.  Leave her alone or I’ll stick you so no one

            would think it anything but

            the way you pull the whole belt

            to your tray and this one time you pulled

            your scissors straight into your beehive.

            Leave.  Her.  Alone.

More motherly: And missy.  Cut what you can—

tomorrow stand next to me—I’ll show

you heads and tails and how to weave

a pattern so pretty in the can

you’ll think it’s a pie crust dear.

Keep your scissors sharp and your eye

on the belt on the fish on the can this one and the one

coming undone when you’re on your way

back from the shit house better wait

to go sorry about your brother how’s your mother holding up I bet

you’re keeping her spot for her you’re a good girl

for that a good girl here stand by me I’ll show you how

to cut and pack.