After Picasso’s Woman Ironing
Adam Vines

Whose sheet or trousers
compelled her to bend over,

the contour of her back a clay hill,
the space between her arms
as she leans her weight into the iron

another torso, wisps of hair tangling
across her forehead into bass clefs?

Her dress is thin as ankle skin.
She has fallen asleep, the wedge
she holes into the fabric a week’s pay.

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