Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Wendy Taylor Carlisle Ironing with Zeus There is no iron, only the periodic flash, the sizzle smell of damp wool. As Ops taught him, he starts at the collar, piles up the folded tunics in his small workroom, a corner of the dusty department of theology, his whole world now. He never steps outside to listen for the sea, to check the riverbank for swans. If he misses a wrinkle, singes a pleat it is nothing to the ocean in his mind, turquoise, brilliant as the nearly-forgotten, Olympian sky Next Poem
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