This is not the refurbished
1950s sewing machine mother gave
me.
With care and oiling,
it is as indestructible as
tradition.
This is not Grandma’s
treadle machine—
foot-powered,
meant to outlive us all.
The machines were marketed
to keep women home—
to tend, to mend—
not to be seen.
My great-great-great grandmother
sewed to survive—
mending orchard bags with an awl,
everything else
with a needle,
a thimble,
filigreed embroidery scissors
no longer sharp, but still with
heft.
Her fingertips toughened—
skin split from knots and
spittle.
This machine is new.
Plastic-shelled.
I use it for mending.
I resent it—
uncovered on the desk
its usefulness
barely used.
How many quilt tops,
face masks,
little black dresses
must I sew
to justify it?
It troubles what I think
a woman should be.
This machine is already
obsolete.
It will be discarded—
plastic shipped to China,
another heap
of things we needed once.
There is a Red S logo on its
face—
not for Slow fashion,
not for Sustainability.
I sew by hand—
each stitch
placed, pulled through,
one at a time.
