every year, she says. I don't believe
her, those words like lines we cross

on our way to the library to pay our dues.
She is final. I believe her in the way

I believe in Santa Claus or Satan:
without my heart in it, always

expecting something more than what I'm told.

She folds paper cranes like that, too
quickly. An expert in excess: unnecessary.

I know she will let me wallow in myself
until she folds me into that shape,

the portions of us we have mapped.

07/22/2011

Posted on 07/23/2011
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