From which thread will the demonstration banner
of Dir Hana’s textile workers be woven.

A drop of sweat rows in the canals along a scratch on the palms
like a slave galley moving toward the Bay of Scars on fingernails.
I recall my mother’s first years in this country.
A new immigrant sits in the sewing machine room of the Rekem factory.
Her brow is furrowed like a skein of wool,
the thimble a war helmet and the needle a sword piercing the belly of the fabric
out of which were sewn holiday clothing,
workers’ overalls
and the handkerchief of the tear.