(Clip 1: Transgressions)
I know I
am not supposed
to be writing our women
digging their greens, tres-
passing in another class,
but this ground is composed
of my people
and I am on my knees and this is a knife.
(Clip 2: All in Good Time)
A woman in her handsewn dress
relays canners of washwater heating on the range since
it's turning out to be a good drying day. Piles
of handmade and couldn't be made clothes for seven sorted
around their new lordlike wringer from Ivan Braun's.
Milkpail, scrubbed and scalded...
The frothy hay-seeded strainercloth clean again on the pulley line.
Yeastdough rising in a three gallon pot. Cookingdishes soaking
awaiting free hands and next boiling teakettle rinse.
Four rhubarb pies men will vie for
at some benefit bakedbean supper crowning towels
on the linoleumtacked sideboard she's been up since five.
Only so much time before the youngest get home on the bus
their father out at four. The car's at the mill
where would she go she never shops.
No clubs. Chauffeurs the kids after extra trips to keep it,
and him when he's had too much. Work and more work
she hollers when she's had it they hardly ever hear her laugh
but sometimes she plays Amapola
on the piano and The Beer Barrel Polka she doesn't even
need notes and she sees to it any who want have lessons long
as they want in town with Faye MacLeod.
(Clip 3: Piano Lessons)
There’s always an old piano to be found.
Small hands that weed, haul, pitch, pick and stack
need a piano as much as a piano needs them.
A child’s thinking she no longer wants lessons
can coincide with a father’s first traction
and leave from the mill and news
there’s no more money
or rides.
(Clip 4: Making Maybaskets)
chasing kissing chasing kissing
Your mother trades her eggmoney for pleats of tissue
and crinkled crepe paper at the 5 & 10 the colors of arbutus trailing/ on the ledges...
off the Waldo-Hancock Bridge where... [writers] will someday come to work and run
come to breathe in what people imagine you girls imagine about those sailors
off those tankers and barges come to load and unload. Don’t go down town
there’s a boat in...lest you pick all Bucksport’s rare wild rose yarrow on the way to the wharf,
encounter rainforest you don’t know about emotions, become women right there on the dock
emerging with foreign flowers between your souvenir breasts for the rest of your life.
(Clip 5: Incendiary)
She takes them to be consultants
when they sit beside her
on the Bangor to Boston flight
discussing “the lesson from Bucksport.”
You know, “dialoguing the situation,”
one actually says.
“So what!”
“It was only five thousand and
it was extra anyway.”
“Only a perceived loss,”
You know, “values” they say.
She strains under her seatbelt
against their sickening tone. Them.
She is a child in the frigid dark carrying
finger biting pails from the well
to the cows, trip after slippery
mitten soaking trip; because
a barge is in and has to be loaded and
it is her father’s “value” to work
all the overtime he can get
to make ends meet and
the ends don’t. Meet.
“I hesitate to call it sabotage,”
“but we expected morale
to be improved by now.”
“Problem is,”“they’re reminded
of the cut every week on payday.”
“The solution to that is to pay them
once a month,” one says.
One smiles and says.
When the pilot announces
changed landing plans,
(out of his hands, he says)
they jostle him through their
textbook talk. Wouldn’t want him
working for them, they say.
“Must be a union man,” they say.
“Asses!” she wants to answer,
her smoldering anger threatening
to take them down.
And don’t they think it possible
that union people ever travel
twenty miles upriver, or fly anywhere,
or don’t they care how disgusting
their “dialogue” is in a laboring state
or don’t they care
or don’t they care or don’t they care?
(Clip 6: Another Long)
Comes back a dark
before the 4 o’clock
shift lets out. Comes back
the deep freeze
safe to slaughter in, safe
to hook the summer’s beef
critter from a north porch
rafter in, to hang lean
suspended months
in crystal state for children
to whittle chips from
to fry after county basketball
games in town while friends
sip Coke at Pop Hill’s.
For a wife’s hands chapped
from outside work
or work inside in a house
cold in as out
for a wife’s chapped hands
to carve stars from
ragged slices of the-sky’s-
the-limit to fry in that rugged
castiron pan that is his entire
universe raised on salt pork
and biscuits the tenathem
swearin’ his family’ll never
go to bed hungry, for a wife’s
chapped hands to have on the table
by the time P.D. comes through that door
from unloading hundredpound
bags of tapioca for test-coating paper
from that day’s #2-machine’s run.
Rigger. Before his pie.
These are the days of men dying in blizzards walking home from work at the mill.
These are the days of accidents in the woods.
These are the days of nothing but working to keep warm.
These are the days of children and old people going up in awful sorrowful smoke.
These are the days of tomorrow’s flaming lips
(Last Clip: Hush with me...)
before we punch out. I know you’re tired from your work
and so am I, and we should be out raking in the fields. But we will most likely
never crew again, so here’s where the heart comes in.
I’m telling you, you could hear it in their sighs if they could realize
what you do, and that you are here amongst them right now hashing it over,
how to show the truth for the visible--and invisible--workers of the world,
for which, there is no end. |