Zhivago watches his pregnant wife,
hears her purpose in the rhythmic thud
of flat triangle stroked over cloth.
She takes its point into the tuck of cuffs,
follows the edge of pleats, with heat
and weight loosening the long chain bonds.
I look on, share her fixed impatience
with the slightest crinkle, straightening
in my head the crooked fibres.
Collars are flattened wrong side first;
even in the yoke of his shoulders
creases are pressed knife-sharp, no puckering.
Here, we bring you this pile of lines,
smoothed and fastidiously folded.
Finish the job: put them where they belong.
vi. 2009
Ariadne's Thread #7, June 2013
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