We sat in rows along a wooden bench.
\nEach place equipped with metal stick,
\nlever, and a bulb. Our task: to count the slip straps,
\nto package them in sets of twenty-four.<\/p>\n
The drill was simple. You slid the slip strap
\ndown over the metal stick. Each time you did
\nyou hit the lever with a click. Click click, click click,
\nclick, click. Twenty four and then the light stayed on.<\/p>\n
Click click, click click. Juanita and I were hired
\nto pack the straps. We laughed and practiced
\nSpanish as we slapped the multi-colored slips
\nof cloth down on the growing stack. Click click,<\/p>\n
click, clack. For us it was a lark. July and August,
\nfat beads of sweat crawling down our backs. On Route 110
\nsquat factories nestled, lacking light and air, swallowed
\nin the dull roar of low flying planes. We tracked<\/p>\n
the days on calendars of windowpanes and clocks
\nof tapping feet. After each bundle of twenty four,
\nwe wrapped them with a rubber band and laid
\nthem in a box, dusky slivers of color, traveling<\/p>\n
incognito, a cardboard box of silly strands looking
\nfor the remainder of the garment: the strapless slip.
\nI was horrible at this. I missed the light and clicked
\nand clicked until my pile overflowed the stick.<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t make my quota. Juanita slipped me bundles
\nfrom her box when the super turned her back. Click
\nclack, click clack. Dark haired girls worked beside us.
\nTwins. One so pregnant her wrinkled smock rubbed<\/p>\n
against the bench. One morning she came in with one eye
\nbruised, a puckered lip. No questions. Just click and click.
\nThey hated us. In the listless room, where we ate our twenty
\nminute lunch, they laughed behind their hands and turned<\/p>\n
their backs whenever we sat down. I don\u2019t know how,
\nbut the manager found out that we had other plans,
\ndid not expect to keep on clicking straps, but wanted to
\nescape this clacking mess come September. He fired<\/p>\n
us and we went out the door and stood beside the highway
\ncarousing in the sun, drunk on an early release, our fingers
\nlike the wild wheat of fall, waving and ready for the harvest,
\nstreaming like threads of silk in conquered air.<\/p>\n
Published in: We sat in rows along a wooden bench. Each place equipped with metal stick, lever, and a bulb. Our task: to count the slip straps, to package them in sets of twenty-four. The drill was simple. You slid the slip strap down over the metal stick. Each time you did you hit the lever with … <\/p>\n
\nVerse Wisconsin<\/em> (Summer 2010)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"