Old Singer Sewing Machine
This snap of an old black one is handsome,
but Mother’s was prettier, with flowers –
my hands touched her feet working the treadle
driving the big lower wheel turning
with its loop, a thin strip of leather,
sending its turning up to the small wheel.
Singer, I’d say to myself, while the musical
hum of it speeded up then slowed.
The shiny flat rectangle the needle entered,
that slid open and shut – under it
the tiny shiny reel of cotton she refilled –
her finicky threading of the needle –
my fear of its downward stroke so sharp.
Afternoons, mother’s feet working the treadle.
A shadow mother at a shadow Singer
sewed shadows by the real one in the sun.
Her shadow treadle seesawed against the treadle.
Her real slippers, soft to touch, glowed gold.
Max Richards
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