April, 2004

I was fifteen. eight hours
in the waiting room remembering
the ride, lights flashing, you
crying through your oxygen
mask, saying I'm okay,
I'm okay. I still hear you
when I close my eyes,

see the man across the room,
folding paper cranes out of
magazine pages &
pamphlets about every
kind of pain. after six hours
he taught me the right way
to fold a wing

& it was, I think, the one thing
that saved me: each
smooth and steady crease
a promise.

---