she makes poems

machine   n. 1. a)    any system, usually of rigid bodies, formed and connected to alter, transmit and direct applied forces in a predetermined manner to accomplish a specific objective, such as the performance of useful work.* 
 *from The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, Ed. William Morris, American Heritage Publishing Co., Inc., 1969.

On my way from
the last home
to my next office
I passed a field
now fallow
and heard
the humming women
made to bow
whose fingers
plucked
plucked
plucked
under heavy heat
and hotter eyes
and moved
to pick
pick
pick
the next row
turn
pick
plucked
nerves
pick
plucked
hearts
pick
plucked
health

and all the while
the humming
under the click
of my own heels
I hear the engine
of their industry
in the field
I pass from home
to office.

On my way from
the last home
to my next office
I passed a factory
still shut down
and heard
the humming women
chins tucked
under
a dank obscurity
plucking the stems
from the leaves of tobacco
sorting and stripping and
plucking and hanging
sorting the leaves
and stripping the nerves
and plucking the stems
and hanging the heart
and sorting the leaves
and stripping the health

and all the while
the humming
under the click
of my own heels
I hear the engine
of their industry
in the factory
I pass from home
to office.

On my way from
the last home
to my next office
I passed a plant
long abandoned
and heard
the humming women
shoulder to shoulder
in the damp
of a cold segregation
plucking through parts
no one else will touch
packing the casings
standing in blood
plucking through parts
and standing on nerve
packing the casings
and standing with heart
plucking and
packing and
standing past health

and all the while
the humming
under the click
of my own heels
I hear the engine
of their industry
in the plant
I pass
on my way from that last home
to  my next office

where I stoop
at last
tall over mountains
to pluck
whites from coloreds
stripping your beds
packing your lunches
picking your sons up
out of the sandbox

and all the while
the humming
under the click
of my own tongue
the engine
of my industry
gnashing my nerves and
grinding my heart and
shredding my health.

Too harried to dwell
even for a time
I am no sojourner.

Too often tongue-tied
I tell no truth

but that
on my way
through home
through office
I hear the humming of the women asking,
“Ain’t I . . .?
Ain’t I . . .?”