by Philip Levine

    Take this quiet woman， she has been

    standing¹ before a polishing wheel

    for over three hours， and she lacks

    twenty minutes before she can take

    a lunch break.  Is she a woman？

    Consider the arms as they press

    the long brass² tube against the buffer³，

    they are striated⁴ along the triceps，

    the three heads of which clearly show.

    Consider the fine dusting of dark down

    above the upper lip， and the beads⁵

    of sweat that run from under the red

    kerchief across the brow and are wiped

    away with a blackening wrist band

    in one odd motion a child might make

    to say No！ No！ You must come closer

    to find out， you must hang your tie

    and jacket in one of the lockers⁶

    in favor of a black smock， you must

    be prepared to spend shift after shift

    hauling off the metal trays of stock，

    bowing first， knees bent⁷ for a purchase，

    then lifting with a gasp⁸， the first word

    of tenderness between the two of you，

    then you must bring new trays of dull

    unpolished tubes.  You must feed her，

    as they say in the language of the place.

    Make no mistake， the place has a language，

    and if by some luck the power were cut，

    the wheel slowed to a stop so that you

    suddenly saw it was not a solid object

    but so many separate bristles⁹ forming

    in motion a perfect circle， she would turn

    to you and say， "Why？" Not the old why

    of why must I spend five nights a week？

    Just， "Why？" Even if by some magic

    you knew， you wouldn't dare speak

    for fear of her laughter， which now

    you have anyway as she places the five

    tapering¹⁰ fingers of her filthy¹¹ hand

    on the arm of your white shirt to mark

    you for your own， now and forever.

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