Ironed Out

I am still scrubbing the dark splash of wine
That you tipped over my white dress last night.
Silence is wrung, and hangs on the clothesline
And on stitched lips, but we’d rather close sight.
The fabric rips, and the sound crackles through,
And my cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.
Your calloused hands hovered mine, and I knew
That this white taffeta was ours to mend.
So we folded silence with our laughter,
Sorted past white and colored misgivings,
Smoothed the folds and  creases with our banter,
And hemmed and sewed all of our loose endings,
Because if wine had to stain me once more,
I’d go through it again just to be yours.