Moon through a net curtain

Drained through a gauze,

endless bending to the board

whose surface is not high enough.

Shirt after shirt,

I as rice in a sieve sit

parched and in fragments.

A sad song played and I was lost

to joy, tipped over,

almost burned my hand (clumsy

in my hungering state).

Creases ironed to loving perfection

(unnoticed) into mass-produced and

cheaply-sourced fabric. It’s

necessary and should be unsung

for woman’s work is never done.

Reviews

[Geralyn Miller]

Lovely, evocative, sweet to read, so much in so few words. Great write.