Woman Ironing

After Picasso 1904

It’s not about heat
Though clearly she could be seared,
Probably was
More than once

No – it’s the angle
Of her head
Drooped

And hanging
From her shoulder
As from a scaffolding of
Drudgery
So
Unrelenting
She sees no point
To looking up

This grey woman –
Not grey with years
But grey from a grey life –
Her skin, her thin fingers
Welded to the iron,
Her eyes concealed
Because cast down
To the grey cloth
The grey table
The grey ordinance
Of the iron

Against which
One shoulder
Hiked impossibly painfully high
Counterweights
The always pressing down
That begins before the sun
And does not stop
Even while she is prone

Oh this adaptable woman! –
Anvil of her chin
Smudge of her eyes
Head lolling
Off that shoulder –
The acromion
Unaligned
Jutting up
Compelled against its nature
To serve someone else’s
Comfort
And indifference

As if Picasso knew
Bones were prime yet malleable
Given enough force
And time,
Color a frill
Of little use
A temptation defunct
A sorrow. a taunt