Selected poems 2008-2013
Ward Six Press
Oh Lord, please fold me into pieces,
it is your right then, after all.
This is my prayer to you.
It’s all I’ve known, all I’ve been through.
Keep folding me in smaller and
much smaller segments.
Compartmentalize me, make me small.
Make my life tiny, my soul even more so,
something that can be rolled between
your thumb and the forefingers
of my fellow humans, not just you.
Your Highness, drop me
in your pipe and smoke it,
fold wine stained paper, blank for
there’s no writing on it, just lemon
ink about what I had wished to do.
Excellency, see, answer and say:
What is the final shape
you’ll have for me?
In your infinite wisdom and compassion,
And flawed folding techniques, your
hands span galaxies but souls are tough
and brittle: about as hard to fold completely ‘
as it is to catch a flea.
Which is why we…
You know quite where I am going.
Shall I stop?
Very well, then.
I’ll tone it down and go like this:
Your highness, what I do know
are your mysterious ways,
the way you flirt with us from up on high.
No one can know them, so I’ll suppose that
maybe you are folding me
into a crane. If so, then I could
stand so graceful on the river bank,
elegant in ballet pose and even travel
through long distances but paper wings
are clipped, the fish are few,
far in between, but all about
that joke I knew
before you folded me.
I know you wouldn’t make me into the crane’s
cousin, old grey stork, the shape’s the same but
since you are all knowing and you know me,
you are aware that at this point I wouldn’t nest but
and warn the worms and sods of bringing
babies into this, your swamp of a creation,
and for this protest
you folded me into the
shape of a toad.
I’ve never had a say in how you handled me.
But were I given say or choice about my
final form, I’d wish you’d fold my
little spiny soul into
a tiny little neutron bomb.
Too bad that paper can’t explode.