Iron (November)

But before anything else (school, bills, calls) there’s the ironing. Curve the collar, smooth the sleeves, prow between the buttons. She has time to think of anything else (himself, themselves, health). Lengthen the leg, contour the fly, impress the seams. Steam the see-through, press the support, bip the toes. She stands at a lit window at night looking out at anything else. Uncrinkle the skirt, refine the line, highlight design. Hiss this, flatten that, more of the other. The window’s one in a loose constellation on the hillside. Square the handkerchiefs, finalise their folds, ready for November pollen. Anything else?

Iron (November)

The need to feel flat is universal. Our bodies are hills and valleys, ports and outposts, heartlands and extremities. But all this beautiful geography we cover each day with a selection of arty maps. The flatter the map the better, many even dressing for flatterers, such is their straight out-there belief in flat. We have a device to satisfy the need for flatness. Sight of a basket full of wrinkles gets it steamed up, the way November anticipates Christmas: a worthwhile job that must be done. It nudges daintily around buttons and zips, presses home. It has all points covered.