Ironing
By Vicki Feaver 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 horse with 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 crane if 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, round buttons, breathing the sweet heated smell hot metal draws from newly-washed cloth, until my blouse dries to a shining, creaseless blue, an airy shape with room to push my arms, breasts, lungs, heart into. From Poetry Archive