The iron treadles rock and doven
in the flatiron shadows, pressed air and piece work.
Hungry hands move like birds.
Every week the girl who makes the least gets fired.
I still miss those pajamas — my hospital pajamas — white with blue roses and thin stripes. My mother made the pajamas for me when I was seven. It was my first trip to the hospital to see if doctors could divine the odd sloshing rhythm that had made my heart unreliable since birth. Whatever … Read more