a shirt w/o wrinkles

a shirt w/o wrinkles

button by button, 

uncuff,
uncuff,
he begins to unwind like the snow
i have never held in open hands,
have never watched melt gracefully
to a puddle of
carmine petals tied with a golden band.

he slows his approach, ruffles his hair
eyes gazing dream-like into the mirror.
it’s the first thing he sees.

then the frozen image fluxes
like candle wax, streaming down glass.
he takes his place beside me
but his mind is always
wandering to the table of
scrambled papers with dim light
illuminated. for now,
he’s on the crumbling, old couch.

i watch each crease in
his shirt fold over, become
a million more wrinkles.

i am trapped
between those creases,
translucent islands,
secluded, diluted
until he swats me out
with the flick of his curved hand.
so calm, so
cool. so
untouchable,
even for me.

he is wrinkle-less now,
ironing his own shirts.

Reviews

[Briana O'Connor]

This is such an intriguing metaphor of sweet bliss. The observation of the narrator and the emotions he/she feels is a quite palpable sensation. I just love the way this poem flows without falter. One thing I would suggest is to work out the punctuation. There are a few sentences within each stanza, and the lack of periods makes it hard to see the significant pause needed. You could also just capitalize the first letter of the words that begin a new sentence without adding in punctuation. Thank you for sharing.

[Regina K. Pride]

Thanks so much! I see what you mean by the capitalization and punctuation. Thanks.