Tan Jing Min

the tag sticks out: made in china. i light
a candle for the mothers who are lost. in my hands
the needle misses lace and enters flesh instead. 
blood blooms like crimson carnations on
crushed white lace. i imagine shaking fingers
stitching satin into my skin. how long 
since her last meal? what do her children
sing to themselves before falling asleep, 
or do they toil too for some other trade? 

before bed, i grip my sides 
a little tighter. hands full of invisible
labour. perhaps this is the secret
mystery that keeps me up at night—
the candle flickering, thin straps 
resting lightly on my shoulder 
with the weight of another woman’s 
suffering.  

On ‘mending a victoria’s secret camisole’

With more time spent at home, changes in attire have taken on newfound significance for me. Slipping on sleepwear has become a strange sanctuary — a reminder to my body that in these clothes, rest is sacrosanct. But we have long known that this maxim is the preserve of the wealthy. Mending an article of fast fashion was a personal act of resistance against the inexorable motion of the cogs of global capitalism. This poem, a product of my meditation while struggling to do this simple task, is another.

The art in the poem’s thumbnail is courtesy of © Zoe S. (@zsillustration).