
The Lacemaker 1841
by Barbara Carlson
Pushed from my father’s hearth at ten
I cried and clung to my mother.
What daily fingers they said.
Better to pull the threads.
I’ve drawn and pulled, twisted and looped
silk threads for seven years.
Up at dawn in my gray cold room.
Downstairs for a slice of bread and tea.
Winter rain strikes the window
Watery beads glisten
Then slowly slide from sight.
Out in the cold my fingers freeze,
Icy wind smacks my back.
My thin shoes splash in the mud.
Toes so cold they burn.
I dream of the young soldier
who kissed my hand.
Twice.
But that was long ago
and now he’s far away.
In the workroom we twenty girls sit
and yawn,
the light is dim.
Eyes down, backs bent
We pulled and cut the silky thread.
I prick my thumb.
Again.
Lace for sleeves
Cut thread and stitch.
Lace for silk and satin.
Keep tension even.
Lace for collar and cuffs
Pull threads firmly.
The light is so weak.
Cut threads and stitch.
Dinner at last.
A slice of meat and
an egg my landlady gave me.
I long to rise up and
sweep across the floor
Quick steps
Across the room
And back again
Swirl and spin
Swirl and spin again,
The blow from Mrs. Hartwell’s cane
stings my neck
I have dropped a line maybe two.
You worthless girl
No better than a dreamer
You don’t deserve your wages.
The wood ashes in the firepot beneath my feet
Have long ago turned cold.
My back aches.
The pain in my fingers lingers.
I can hardly remember morning tea
it was so long ago.
The unfortunate lives of working women and girls of the 19th Century should never be forgotten and so I submit The Lacemaker to you. I am an eighty one year old retired school teacher who has been writing poetry and prose for the past four years. -Author's submission note