The Shirt
R. Milian
It lies all wrinkled up on the ironing board, like crumpled paper in a wastebasket, a dying patient waiting to be resuscitated by the burning iron. The steam slowly rises with life.
My hand, a doctor, carefully pressing her skin, makes sure her creases are smoothly softened, like the flat surface of the Ohio country.
The warmth of the metal offers some needed breaths of oxygen.
Rough fabric gives way to rigidity, a soldier standing upright for inspection by a drill sergeant.
Firm long sleeves are two huge towers, shining in the distance. The right pocket, an airplane window opened to the sky, and the buttons sparkle like orange fire on a summer day.
Like fresh bread, I put on my shirt ready to face the world.
It lies all wrinkled up on the ironing board, like crumpled paper in a wastebasket, a dying patient waiting to be resuscitated by the burning iron. The steam slowly rises with life.
My hand, a doctor, carefully pressing her skin, makes sure her creases are smoothly softened, like the flat surface of the Ohio country.
The warmth of the metal offers some needed breaths of oxygen.
Rough fabric gives way to rigidity, a soldier standing upright for inspection by a drill sergeant.
Firm long sleeves are two huge towers, shining in the distance. The right pocket, an airplane window opened to the sky, and the buttons sparkle like orange fire on a summer day.
Like fresh bread, I put on my shirt ready to face the world.
posted by Rolando Milian at 7:48 PM
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