My Shirt

Blue threads link women.
In Bangladesh she wears
a bright sari of thin poor cloth.

Her hands move swiftly
across bleached denim
so little time lost

so little fuel or coin
needed for her quick work
in dusty slatted light.

My shirt is nothing to her
mere stuff of work work
trance of work as quick quick

through her fingers
she draws seams, tosses garments
into piled baskets at her feet.

Blue blue – she must dream
of blue – such foreign blue –
does she wonder, turning

first sleeve, second sleeve,
folding both sleeves, what other
woman’s arms will slide

into this blue – no time
to raise her eyes
to wonder how, and who?

Martha Street

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