The board sways as my mother’s iron
skates in whirls, exhales in huffs
like a child teased and alone
on a frozen lake, her blades keen
as her creases—her angers starched,
folded, stacked, as if in the rock
of her shoulder and the lean grace
of her wrist, some perfection
can be made of solitude
and the glaze of cotton
scoured with shouts of steam.

Image: Mulyadi on Unsplash

Published: South Florida Poetry Journal, #26 — August 2022

6 Thoughts

      1. You’re welcome. It brought back pleasant memories of my mom ironing. She used to let me iron my dad’s handkerchiefs (back in the day before kleenex existed.)

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