Mary  

normally works the Juki 7800, an industrial sewing machine that squats  

at the Catholic charity in Flint’s North End. She’s darted from the gentlemen’s club  

to work fulltime in the nuns’ sewing shop. Usually, it’s scrubs  

or restraining straps for the hospital’s mental ward,  

but this work belongs to Tracy Reese, designer to Michelle Obama.  

From concrete curbs, Reese harvested Flint water bottles, recycled them into fabric,  

designed a line celebrating water. The twill fabric slithers through scissors,  

but Mary cuts true, eye sharp on the patternmaker’s plan. She’s the only woman cutting  

the finite fabric; others pin. 

Reese throws the fashion show in New York, gathering a few Flint seamstresses. 

The city streets dazzle Mary with asphalt and taxi exhaust. At the show, a model,  

skin morena, slips into palazzo pants and halter top. Mary’s heart gulps every swish  

as cameras and stilettos slingshot the collection on the catwalk.  

The crowd’s approval evict the gray remnants  

of her father’s Alzheimic unwinding, the albatross house lost to the bank,  

her body chilled in the hooptie that billowed smoke through the long cold winter. 

Mary has cinderallaed trash into art. The tears sequin her skin.