Ironing

By Anita Tanner

Mother ironed endlessly,

leaving the sacrament cloth for early

Sunday morning so as not to press a crease.

She made the corners meet

and carried it that way to the hushed chapel,

without a soul in the seats.

She laid it over the table

without so much as a wrinkle.

And I felt with the priests kneeling there

on that cold winter morning

the warmth of her iron

reaching through our fingertips.