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Dolores Hayden, scholar of unconventional material feminist living arrangements, theorist of the non-sexist city,  preeminent architectural historian, poetess of the American Yard. Widow Sewing Work Clothes Quilts, Gee’s Bend, Alabama She cuts his shirts and jeans and overalls, piecing the quilts to keep six children warm as early winter needles through log walls. Late fall, frost rims the creek. The weather stalls. Her husband’s dead—took chill after a storm. She grasps his shirts and jeans and overalls, unstitches pockets, rips his 40 talls with knees knocked-out from plowing round the farm. As early winter needles through log walls, she saves the chest and shoulders, strips all sound cloth from thigh and seat, takes out an arm. She clasps his shirts and jeans and overalls— beneath the pockets, some fresh denim falls inside a faded field. She’s strapped, needs swarm. As early winter needles through log walls, old sun-struck cloth wraps babies like fine shawls, embraces them with shapes a man’s limbs form. She holds his shirts and jeans and overalls as early winter needles through log walls.

Dolores Hayden, scholar of unconventional material feminist living arrangements, theorist of the non-sexist city,  preeminent architectural historian, poetess of the American Yard.


Widow Sewing Work Clothes Quilts,
Gee’s Bend, Alabama

She cuts his shirts and jeans and overalls,
piecing the quilts to keep six children warm
as early winter needles through log walls.

Late fall, frost rims the creek. The weather stalls.
Her husband’s dead—took chill after a storm.
She grasps his shirts and jeans and overalls,

unstitches pockets, rips his 40 talls
with knees knocked-out from plowing round the farm.
As early winter needles through log walls,

she saves the chest and shoulders, strips all
sound cloth from thigh and seat, takes out an arm.
She clasps his shirts and jeans and overalls—

beneath the pockets, some fresh denim falls
inside a faded field. She’s strapped, needs swarm.
As early winter needles through log walls,

old sun-struck cloth wraps babies like fine shawls,
embraces them with shapes a man’s limbs form.
She holds his shirts and jeans and overalls
as early winter needles through log walls.

  1. certainkindofgenius reblogged this from goldentrianglewc and added:
    i wrote my senior thesis about this lady! part of it at least. what a genius.
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