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.