There is a scream trapped inside
the folding arms of my ironing board.
It wails like something ancient,
like a witch pressed against the cauldron’s lip,
spitting fury at the boiling oil.
The sound unhinges my calm,
rattles the air like a banshee lost.
I press my weight against its rebellion,
force the legs into position—
a ritual repeated, though I hate the chant.
All for something so small,
the flattened collar of a shirt,
a wrinkle smoothed that no one notices.
This violent orchestra for invisible victories.
I wonder if iron clatters like this,
like rage strangled through teeth,
when it meets fire,
when molten rivers shape its bones.
There must be love in this, somewhere,
hidden in the scream of the mundane.
Proof that even the polished requires pain,
even the ordinary demands its hauntings.