Issue 11
Iron
Janet I. Buck
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The Ironing Board
Mother stood at the pulpit,
a bit of a goddess in seersucker robes.
Hair in matted spider strings
falling from the tight French roll.
Baggy pockets full of cookies
almost warm by proxy
to treasured the steam.
I watched as wrinkles disappeared
like sand inside an Etch-a-Sketch.
Collars first, then yolks,
then sleeves, then front,
then back, then sleeves again.
A science of pressing in place
what roamed outside control.
She couldn't fix my choppy gait,
couldn't shave those gangly lumps
of soured chancre winning
games of lies we played.
I'd never have two Barbie legs,
never be the gliding swan
that stole the show on
grade school stages
far too slick to navigate.
With ironing -- the board was flat.
Neat answers to this entropy,
a walking life of sticking zippers,
shattered whole ceramic dreams.
I watched as her arms made satin
of anger and stumbling tears.
Here there were no hills to climb --
no roses fainting in her hands.
~Janet I. Buck
Janet I. Buck is a five-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. In 2002-2003, her work is scheduled to appear in CrossConnect, Artemis, Offcourse, Zuzu's Petals Quarterly, and dozens of journals world wide. Email.
© 2003 by Janet I. Buck. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2003 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.