These eight white hankies – first
I placed them in a pan with bleach
and boiled them back towards the sort of
white my mother’d have approved.

Next I wrung and hung them out
so the sun could whiten, dry them
into starchy, crumpled flags. Then brought
them in – that crisp, outdoorsy smell!

At home, I’d use the ironing board
with its own seat, its bendy cable guard
and the green plastic washing basket
set on a chair, before the dresser

This evening, as I ironed, the letters
on the corners (red and blue), had brought
to mind my relatives. My Uncle,
George (his “G” in red, the fabric frayed,

its texture soft as soft). I pressed it square
and folded – once, twice, thrice. Then came
to Aunty Con’s – both C & M she’d had –
Constance Mary, sister of William George.

Years have washed away the inked-in
“C” and “B” she’d added, (either side of “M”,
her Mother’s name) to claim the hankie as her own.
I pressed and folded and piled. Then I got to “B”

(my sister’s ex). Why keep that one? His story –
standing in the engine room, a mate with something
in his eye. Grey, oily handkerchief produced,
unfolded – perfectly white inside.

I pressed and folded and piled. Then did
the “plain” ones – one with holes, the two
with patterned borders and the one
whose stain I never can remove