Excerpt from Audacity by Melanie Crowder, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

—I do not need burnished silver
or gilded chains—
tin would do
or brass
as long as the gears turn
as long as the hands
read true.

At lunch,
when we should have half an hour,
the foreman moves the hands
of the shop clock forward
to cut our time short.

(we have caught him at it
once or twice, but
he is only cleaning the gears,
so he says)

Before the end of the workday
he moves the hands back again
farther this time
to keep us at our workstations
even longer.

Only after the doors are unlocked
and we lift our eyes to the clock in the square
do we know for sure
we have been let out late
again.

How can we ever
prove him wrong
if we are all too poor
for a simple timepiece?

I feel like a monkey on a chain
dancing for the laughing crowds
with no way to break free.

the shrike

Today I watched a shrike
plummet through the air.
Its curved beak
clamped
onto a swallow's neck
in midflight.

The shrike's wings snapped open
he glided to perch
on the thorned tree
outside the shop.
He must not have been hungry
just then—
he thrust the swallow's body
onto a thorn,
impaling it,
saving it for later.

What student of science am I
disrupting the natural order of things
that I wanted to swat the creature away,
lift down the lifeless bird
bury her
unhindered
under a layer
of freshly turned dirt?

speedups

Without a machine
a worker can make thirty stitches
a minute.
With a machine
that number rises
to over three thousand.

But somehow
the boss is not satisfied, still
with such a pace

fasterfasterfaster

the girls bend over their machines
like saplings driven to the ground
in a heavy snowstorm
until there are only two options:

       snap
and crash
to the ground

or

       break free
whipping through the air
to    stand,     quivering    and    tall.

mercury

There will always be a reason
to set my dreams aside:
my family's well-being
the workers' struggle
my own desire to laugh
       and dance
       and skip my studies
       for a trip to the opera.

Am I really so foolish to believe
I can do more
for myself
for Mama
for the workers
if I do not?

But,

how can I leave this fight
flit off to college
when so many still suffer
when I can feel tension
like mercury rising
a wisp of hope
beginning to drift
skyward?

vote

The union brought in Yiddish
and Italian translators
a vote was cast
a strike called
to put an end to the speedups.

For the first time
since I stepped into a garment shop
three years ago
I feel as if
my work
is worthwhile.

sting

At eight o'clock
we march before the shop doors
       —pickets—
arm in arm
chanting
while a newspaper man
scribbles notes
snaps photographs
while the boss watches,
fists on hips
deadlines soaring past.

At nine o'clock
the boss calls in new workers
       —scabs—
women so desperate for work

Excerpted from Audacity by Melanie Crowder. Copyright © 2015 by Melanie Crowder. Excerpted by permission of Philomel. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.