Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire

25 March 1911

I had a name.

The fire came,
 one stairway blocked,
  the others locked;
   the foreman with the key saved himself.

Broken by the leap and fall,
 I will never fall in love.
Caressed by fire,
 I will never know my husband’s caress.
Smothered by smoke,
 I will never be smothered by my child’s love.
Buried unrecognized,
 my family will never know my fate.

I had a name.

The politicians,
 the unions,
  the press
   all made speeches in outrage and promised:

    “Never again!”

They conjured with my death
 but they never knew my name.

And the doors remained locked.

I had a name.

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Notes:
In 2011, a co-worker showed me some poems related to the hundredth anniversary of the fire.  They all dealt with social issues and were filled with outrage and angst, but not one considered the victims as people—they were merely symbols for a cause.  In reading about the fire and what happened I discovered that this was true even in the days just after the fire. In 2011, with forensics and DNA, the last eleven bodies were identified; now they all have names.