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.
-
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Sweet and Bitter Greens 
Fine writing Devon
Hey thanks, David. I miss you buddy.
beautiful imagery
Thank you, Ms!
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.)
I’m happy it brought you some pleasant memories.