Industrial Lace poem – Alice Fulton

The city had such pretty clotheslines.

Women aired their intimate apparel

in the emery haze:

membranes of lingerie—

pearl, ruby, copper slips—

their somehow intestinal quivering in the wind.

And Freihofer’s spread the chaste, apron scent

of baking, a sensual net

over a few yards of North Troy.

The city had Niagara

Mohawk bearing down with power and light

and members of the Local

shifting on the line.

They worked on fabrics made from wood and acid,

synthetics that won’t vent.

They pieced the tropics into housecoats

when big prints were the rage.

Dacron gardens twisted on the line

over lots of Queen Anne’s lace.

Sackdresses dyed the sun

as sun passed through, making a brash stained glass

against the leading of the tenements,

the warehouse holding medical supplies.

I waited for my bus by that window of trusses

in Caucasian beige, trying to forget

the pathological inside.

I was thinking of being alive.

I was waiting to open

the amber envelopes of mail at home.

Just as food service workers, counter women,

maybe my Aunt Fran, waited to undo

their perms from the delicate insect meshes

required by The Board of Health.

Aunt Alice wasn’t on this route.

She made brushes and plastics at Tek Hughes—

milk crates of orange

industrial lace

the cartons could drip through.

Once we boarded, the girls from Behr-Manning

put their veins up

and sawed their nails to dust

on files from the plant.

All day, they made abrasives. Garnet paper.

Yes, and rags covered with crushed gems called

garnet cloth.

It was dusk—when aunts and mothers formed

their larval curls

and wrapped their heads in thick brown webs.

It was yesterday—twenty years after

my father’s death,

I found something he had kept.

A packet of lightning-

cut sanding discs, still sealed.

I guess he meant to open the finish,

strip the paint stalled on some grain

and groom the primal gold.

The discs are the rough size

of those cookies the franchises call Homestyle

and label Best Before.

The old cellophane was tough.

But I ripped until I touched

their harsh done crust.

Alice Fulton

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Poems in English 

• Fancy poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Epistle To My Brother George poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Endymion: Book IV poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Endymion: Book III poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Endymion: Book II poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast As Thou Art poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Bards of Passion and of Mirth, written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletcher’s Tragi-Comedy ‘The Fair Maid of the Inn’ poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Addressed To Haydon poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• A Thing of Beauty (Endymion) poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• When the Assault Was Intended to the City poem – John Milton poems by John Milton
• Upon The Circumcision poem – John Milton poems by John Milton
• To the Same poem – John Milton poems by John Milton
• To The Nightingale poem – John Milton poems by John Milton
• To the Lord Generall Cromwell May 1652 poem – John Milton poems by John Milton
• To the Lady Margaret Ley poem – John Milton poems by John Milton
• To Sr Henry Vane The Younger poem – John Milton poems by John Milton
• To My Lord Fairfax poem – John Milton poems by John Milton
• To Mr. Lawrence poem – John Milton poems by John Milton
• To Mr. H. Lawes on His Airs poem – John Milton poems by John Milton
• To Mr. Cyriack Skinner Upon His Blindness poem – John Milton poems by John Milton

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Doska or the Board – write anything

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Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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