Waking in the afternoon long ago,
To the sound of my mother weeping.
Counterpoint to the swell of the soap opera speaking,
Then, a hiss, and the sharp burning smell of iron on cotton.
Sheets, pants, skirts, and finally, shirts.
Stacks of cloth on the sofa, waiting.
All the laundry finally bleached, folded, ironed.
I learned on my father’s handkerchief, a clean one daily.
This summer afternoon, in my home, alone,
My dead friend has left me weeping
Keeping the cycle of washing, folding, and ironing,
Back aching, I took more from my closet hangers.
The long day, I ironed the unironed and the ironed.
Running the steaming, hissing point into each dart and crease.
Finally, my wardrobe hung, ready for distributing
After I leave, as we all eventually will.