Alison Morse weaves a heartbreaking narrative of garment factory workers' life through the scope of Human sufferings, paved with lack of accountability by owners and substandard working conditions.

Better still, there are Oranges in Europe and Grapes in South Melbourne and A man from the Northern suburbs with a belt that Wears studs and a tattoo I know better than to Question, who Offers me a coffee with half a spoon of sugar.

I thought I was Orpheus’s head floating down the Hebrus still singing, but I was not singing—

A teacher once asked if I lived on the dirty side of the Philippines, I had to think what she meant—if she meant a part easier to ignore homeless kids on the streetsides with cardboard blankets curled up like street dogs; if dirty meant poor meant eating rice with soy sauce ‘cause mama couldn’t afford meat;

Flowers I can’t name stretch over the lip of a windowsill to stare into the swooning sun. I will not sing, but I am tempted.

the spider climbs the spout the wheels on the bus go round Jack gets the magic beans and I say ding dong we are all scrambling out of the frying pan where dozens of eggs were broken to make incredible inedible omelets

What I recall from night is tangled in the uneasy rising of a new day. No need to fiddle in my sleep