As my grandfather’s handkerchiefs stiffened
on the line, she filled a used Royal Crown bottle,
sometimes Dr. Pepper (those sugar tits we craved
at ten, two, and four), to dampen the squares
embroidered with an M for Mac or McClanahan.
I begged nickels to help, aimed the shaker top
at each curled corner. Heat puffed from the iron’s
silver prow, cotton’s thin skin pressed to the board.
Her airless kitchen, a warmth that evaporated
when I left their house. People say more stars
in her crown for this or that goodness, and it’s true—
she wouldn’t leave him, no matter how many
amber highboys he slid to the side of his chair.
Through the steam, I counted a thousand or more.
Poet, playwright, essayist, and editor, Linda Parsons is the poetry editor for Madville Publishing and the copy editor for Chapter 16, the literary website of Humanities Tennessee. Her sixth collection, Valediction, contains poems and prose. Five of her plays have been produced by Flying Anvil Theatre in Knoxville, Tennessee.
Reminds me of the process of sprinkling my brother in law's blue shirts, going through a similar process. I feel I'm there again, unrolling the dampened shirts, ironing them slick smooth. Thanks for bringing back that memory.
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