While Ironing,
a line of reckoning.
Her precision in linen
in dishcloth lap napkin
summer cotton
shirt cuffs & the yoke
across the shoulder
was a navigator’s
geometry, grit from licked
thumb, akin to the pinch
of water’s flung
benediction she’d knotted
before she was done
bringing it all in almost dry
from the line, making it
yield to her and her hot
iron. It was nearly
a sacrilege to let fly
this napkin white as peace
doves to wipe my vinegar & oil
dripping lips, but oh!
to press it there was
a clemency I didn’t know
I needed until right then
and my when cut lips felt
her linen balm and they stilled,
then they parted then barely spoke,
and only: oh! oh!
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