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

*First Published in The Green Tricycle, Spring 2003

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