The iron, heavy, I drag
Back and forth, back and forth.
The most wonderful gift, but
Timing is everything.
Two years, quickly pass,
She is a stranger to me,
But I have little time to notice.
She is my perfect child, oh,
To love her properly all over again!
She is alone, in the dark, scared.
I assure her that it will all be fine,
And as perfect as she is, never complains.
What price must I pay to win the love,
Of my so distant, sweet Emily.
Nothing I have done justifies,
My poor upbringing.
As I stand here ironing,
It hurts my soul, to drag,
Back and forth, the destructive
Iron. The iron which crushes my
I was never there,
To ease her pain and sorrows.
I never saw her life escaping,
My loving touch. I merely saw
Myself, ironing, dragging slowly across
A wooden board.
She deserves more.
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007
Published with permission.
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