Iron Woman

I wonder if ironing would soothe my mood,
magically opening the ironing board after its long sojourn in the closet,
smoothing the board’s cover, running my hands over old scorches,
turning the iron on high, linen, maximum steam, as if to plot a murder.

There are shirts I could iron, things I could clench to wrinkle,
and then make smooth and starchy again with a very hot iron,
pressing the pointed nose into a collar’s corner, extra steam, a shot,
retribution, punishment for intentional wrinkling, calling names too loud.

My mother was an expert ironer, her aprons were crisp with red tulips,
she ironed on Tuesday or whatever the day after wash day was,
hankies and pillowcases but not the sheets, she drew the line there,
it was her chore, her duty, her imprint on us, her signature, not revenge.

But I am not my mother, I want the iron for its heat, its steam, its eradication,
evidence that I’m not without weapons though I’m old and defenseless looking,
come at me with your crumpled, unkempt self, your shirt knotted and crammed into your pants,
I will remember how to press you

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Photo by Filip Mroz on Unsplash