I used to iron everything:
my iron flying over sheets and towels
like a sledge chased by wolves over snow;the flex twisting and crinking
until the sheath frayed, exposing
wires like nerves. I stood like a horsewith a smoking hoof,
inviting anyone who dared
to lie on my silver padded board,to be pressed to the thinness
of dolls cut from paper.
I’d have commandeered a craneif I could, got the welders at Jarrow
to heat me an iron the size of a tug
to flatten the house.Then for years I ironed nothing.
I put the iron in a high cupboard.
I converted to crumpledness.And now I iron again: shaking
dark spots of water onto wrinkled
silk, nosing into sleeves, roundbuttons, breathing the sweet heated smell
hot metal draws from newly-washed
cloth, until my blouse driesto a shining, creaseless blue,
an airy shape with room to push
my arms, breasts, lungs, heart into.
July 16, 2006
Ironing – Vicki Feaver
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[…] Even the most boring of subjects can be made interesting in the hands of a good writer – “Ironing” by Vicki Feaver does this brilliantly. I also like poems that tackle big topics in new […]
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