Rebecca Schumejda

On Unions

I rattle on about how right to work will

undermine years of progress as you heat

the joint of a pipe under the sink,

so the solder will flow into it.

Our youngest daughter takes

the wrenches from your toolbox,

lines them up on the kitchen table

and tucks them in with dishcloths

and oven mitts. You don’t appreciate

the value of organized labor, collective

bargaining, the grievance process, you say:

Can you get out of my way, so I can get this done?

I think about how fourteen-year-old girls

died in Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire

as our daughter cradles your vise grip,

rocking its locking jaw its sharp teeth.

No Matter How Hard You Work

Growling stomachs grow impatient

for dinner warming on the stove top.

My husband spent eight hours

tinkering with machines

and five hanging sheetrock.

Now he holds our baby,

lets her pat dust from his hair, 

soothes her teething woes with

blood blistered fingertip, as I set the table.

Once he asked me why

I don't write more love poems;

I still don't understand what he meant.