On top of the ironing board, a fabric lays
A display so glorious that a melody plays
Ghanaian sown, curious of the unfamiliar
Exploration far away, as it is required to singular
Boldest of contrasts, black and white unite
Separation is key, in day and night
Folded twice, it seeks protection,
Fazed by every inspection
The fabric and iron live in balance
Since the iron asks for silence
The iron’s hot touch, a symbol of might,
A family’s wishes, veiled from light
In the pursuit of flawlessness, it’s clear,
The Fabric conceals what it wishes to be.
The Iron snaps at the clothes to present themselves more elegantly; to come out of the dryer less wrinkled,
less effort on Iron,
less influence on Fabric,
yet somehow the Fabric takes the brunt of the force, always present when
the Iron reprimands clothes.
The Iron hisses, as the clothes land, striving to banish all of their flaws with scalding metals and steam, oblivious to the Fabric’s latent love of those imperfections. In wanting to embrace the garments, the Fabric subtly weaves clothes’ strong-willed behaviors into their own reticent canvas.
The Iron does not see the Fabric’s patches of vibrant colors, loud depictions of red, black, and green that have been stained from wet clothes, always overlooked through the iron’s heat of its security, the touch of their demanding hands that focus only on clothes. Because colors scare the Iron.
The Iron hums in peace knowing they have shown the Fabric the true way of living, feeling proud in the sunshine; the Fabric takes it upon themself to fulfill the iron’s wishes— yet can never stomach it, always bending and folding so clothes can leave ‘imperfect,’ knowing the consequences, constantly anxious in the moonlight.
Will we ever witness its true desires?
How the fabric yearns to fold to its aspirations, to exist without an iron fist? To no longer carry
the Iron Heart.