Jen Town

Hail to the Bloomers


She remembers requiring something pretty for her hair, and thinking In the future won't we all be bald? So much of anatomy and appearance is built on great impracticalities. Progress has been a process of deletion. As in—gone went the hoop skirts, gone went the corsets. Freedom is a shapeless thing. Then there was the walking-the-streets rallies, the golden-hued ribbons and sashes—she was the bell of the suffragist ball. When she curtsied, everyone sang Hail to the Bloomers. Things were gathering speed now: introducing the electric iron, the electric washer and dryer—clotheslines arcane as the butter churn. What would the air do now? It still blew hot and strong as before. Better to move the garbage down the street with—the suddenly abandoned street.