I wish I could iron you right out of me
like a wrinkle. I would press away
all those nights of cheap red wine
and Jack Johnson on repeat,
all those mornings of weak cups
of coffee and Channel Three news.
I would press away all those nights
that you never came home,
all those mornings that you crept
in the door while I pretended
to be asleep. You would crawl
into bed precariously and fold yourself
into the bed sheets and I would listen
as your heart beat slowed itself down.
Red wine still gets me drunk
and weak coffee still makes me cringe
and Rachel Smalley is still talking
about that slight chance of rain,
but it’s been days since you’ve
crawled beneath the covers
and I’m beginning to wonder
how long it will take this iron
to heat up.