The Launderer
I iron his shirts with longing thoughts.
I start with the collar, back to front;
then I press the wrinkles of each sleeve
flat with my fingers before placing
the hot, steamy iron over the surface.
I move to the yoke of each panel
before ironing the back of the shirt,
and, finally, each front panel, moving the hot
metal point in and out of buttons (like a
hen’s beak pecking at seeds in tight places),
trying to press the thin, stitched edge flat.
The placket is an easier task, and I
lovingly move the iron over it smoothly,
making sure the hem of the shirt doesn’t curl up.
The cuffs are another matter, and I don’t give them
the attention they deserve. Rather, I press once
on the non-button side and leave the rest to fate.
This penance, though incomplete, is compensation
for the sundry of tasks I can no longer do.
As my world shrinks, his expands to take in
all that is beyond my body’s capabilities.
He lovingly accepts what I cannot do,
marvels at who I am, and, as my confessor,
absolves me of all my failings,
pressing his warmth over my rough edges,
smoothing out the cavernous walls inside me.
