The dressmaker turns sleeve after sleeve inside out to inspect the seams. She lays the panels face to face and binds them so they won’t tug apart at the slightest pull. For seeing in, there is the keyhole shaped like a tear, through which she dreamt he fed her grapes with his long fingers; when she opened her mouth she nicked each one a little with her teeth. And she imagines a catch on the way in, the way she has to tug to release the bite of metal clamped around a fold.
Everything hurts like that inside, in the factory
where the little heart labors night
and day through the years.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.