If you call me.
If you call,
the answer phone will say I’ve left.
Your shirt, I ironed to draw you closer,
like some smoothing spell:
A silent unfolding
and flattening of desire:
Shape shifting cotton
that played over your heart,
pressing seams that ran
under your arms and to the cuffs
where tiny buttons
in the placket pulled tight;
touching the thin pulsing skin of your wrists
that I might kiss as you reach out or up,
and draw you down to me,
into my big chair
down to my breasts that you liked.
My iron, steaming finds the collar,
instinctively noses under.
I slip undone the buttons
and spread out the sharp white angles.
I see the soft hair on your neck,
your ears and the tilt of your head on my pillow,
How can I wake you, as you have woken me?
Am I sleep walking wanting you?
Shirty because my fantasies disappoint.
Though;
if you call
it must be because I ironed your shirt.