A woman is ironing, making the most
of the last of the light from the window. She gathers
the garments on the ironing-board, dips her fingers
lightly in cold water, sprinkles the clothes,
pressing them with the triangle of steam,
and her eyelashes fill with vapour.
Outside, the city too smooths itself out
in the dusk, as though the buildings
might be coming apart in rivers of molten metal.
In the night, in the darkness, she goes on ironing,
she irons the flowers, the tiles in the house,
the eyelids that don’t know how to close,
this daily fear of ours.
At daybreak, while we’re still asleep,
she pulls out our soul and smooths it, on the right
side and the wrong side, until she has erased from it
every insidious crease, the stigma of doubt.
And so, when we get up, the morning shines
as fresh as a lawn that has just been cut,
and the windows are free from smears,
and breakfast welcomes us into its circle
as intimate and sweet as cream. It’s eight o’clock.
We let ourselves be carried to work.
With the house empty, she comes in and picks up
from the foot of the bed the pile of dirty clothes,
the crumpledness of our ruins.
Behind the steam of centuries, a woman
is ironing, making the most of the last of the light.