Camisa
La espalda, el canesú, metros de tela. Costuras superpuestas,
las puntadas casi invisibles a lo largo del cuello
pasadas en un taller clandestino por coreanos y malayos
chismeando con té y fideos en la pausa
esta parte de la manga con su costura sobrehilada a la banda
del puño que abotono en mi muñeca. El prensatelas, la cortadora,
el pedal, la bobina. El código. El incendio infame
en la fábrica de camisas Triángulo en 1911
En el noveno piso, no había bocas de incendio ni salidas de emergencia –
El testigo del edificio de enfrente
al alféizar de la ventana, luego la sostuvo afuera
alejada de la pared y la dejó caer.
subir al tranvía y no a la eternidad.
Una tercera, antes de que él la arrojara, se abrazó
subió al alféizar él mismo, su chaqueta centelleaba
el aire llenaba las piernas de su pantalón gris—
como el betlemita de Hart Crane “camisa chillona inflada como un globo”.
a través de la tira de refuerzo y por encima de las dobles puntadas gemelas
en los extremos de ambos bolsillos, como una rima estricta
Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. Los tartanes del clan
inventados por dueños de fábricas inspirados por la falsificación de Osssian,
por una heráldica ficticia. MacGregor,
Bailey, MacMartin. La falda diseñada para que los trabajadores
Tejedores, cardadores, hilanderas. El cargador,
el estibador, el bracero. La sembradora, la recolectora, la selectora
como los esclavos con trapos de percal sobre la cabeza sudaban en los campos:
George Herbert, tu descendiente es una negra
y ella inspeccionaba mi camisa. Su color, su ajuste,
su textura y su olor a limpio han satisfecho
tanto a ella como a mí. Hemos escogido su precio y su calidad
y hasta los supuestos botones de hueso.
Los ojales, el apresto, el revestimiento, los signos
la etiqueta, el trabajo, el color, el matiz. La camisa.
Imagen: staythirtymedia.com
Shirt
The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams,
The nearly invisible stitches along the collar
Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians
Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break
Or talking money or politics while one fitted
This armpiece with its overseam to the band
Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter,
The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union,
The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze
At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.
One hundred and forty-six died in the flames
On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes--
The witness in a building across the street
Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step
Up to the windowsill, then held her out
Away from the masonry wall and let her drop.
And then another. As if he were helping them up
To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.
A third before he dropped her put her arms
Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held
Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once
He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared
And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down,
Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers--
Like Hart Crane's Bedlamite, "shrill shirt ballooning."
Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly
Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked
Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme
Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks,
Houndstooth, Tattersall,
Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian,
To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed
By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,
Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers
To wear among the dusty clattering looms.
Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,
The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter
Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton
As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:
George Herbert, your descendant is a Black
Lady in
And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit
And feel and its clean smell have satisfied
Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality
Down to the buttons of simulated bone,
The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters
Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape,
The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.
