Suffragette

He holds her hands, those of women,
who toiled in sweatshops, picked cotton
until they bled, then with blistered fingers
mopped and cooked, gathered water and wood,
and bandaged the wounds of the same soldiers
who pillaged her, rocked the cradle
from dusk to dawn,
who sold her body so her daughter
wouldn’t have to come home with bloody fingers
having worked at the textile mill into the night,
but wasn’t allowed to touch the ballot.