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8 Irons at Her Feet from the coals of her bedroom fired place onto the tip of my grandmother’s december winter stick for fifteen years hot irons traveled into waiting flannel wraps and were shuttled up under covers and in between quilts where three babies lay shivering in country quarter nighttime air hot irons wrapped and pushed up close to frosting toes irons instead of lip kisses is what she remembers irons instead of caramel-colored fingers that should have swaddled shoulders like they swaddle hoes and quiltin’ needles and spongy cow tits 9 every time i am back home i tip into her room tip again into her saucering cheeks and in her half sleep my mother reads her winters aloud to me her persimmon whispers are deliriously sweet to this only daughter’s ear when you are home she says the irons come back every night i know the warm is coming ...

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