Island Factory

From water to water he worked

he traveled by IND. I know little else
about him. Sol worked at a pocketbook

factory in Long Island City. Everyday
from Coney Island to Queens. Immigrants

off to their factory jobs. I am told he
was gentle, kind. Did he watch Luna Park’s

pinwheels spin through the F Train
window (then the Culver Line) on his way

to work? Or the crowds shuffle
home full & sticky after dark? Their

bellies fatter, wallets emptier. Bodies
sticky with sugar and sex, covered
in grains of Atlantic Ocean salt

leather pouches—

a simple fold
navy patent leather
gold leather
silver leather
black leather

he made all day in the factory
dye & leather stains stitches

piecemeal work brought home after
the factory closed for the day

to make extra hours =
dollars. Sometimes, the men

sewed. What

were the sounds like in their hallway?
Yiddish? German? Italian? Russian? Spanish?

Soft or loud? Sol had a heart
attack locked

in the hospital bathroom (his second).
I was five months old.

I have three pocket books he made somewhere on
these city islands in a factory surrounded by water

–Amanda Deutch

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