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.