i still can’t say your name.
not because, the sound makes me sad,
but rather because
the way the letters sit on my tongue and,
the way the syllables leave my lips
simply don’t feel as comfortable as they used to.
i wonder if you can’t hear my name.
the way you told me to add an accent to the end.
the way I made it sound like the ending to a love note,
a love note my diction could fold into a paper crane
that could fly to your heart.
i remember how you recorded me saying my own name,
because, you loved the way the vowels
dripped off my lips one by one,
the way I could curl the four letter nickname so gently
it sounded like a cursive word,
wrapped and tucked behind your ear.
i hope you can’t listen to those recordings,
because I can’t listen to my favorite songs.
i hope one day your mouth opens to say her name
and closes knowing it said my own,
because any time I type another man’s name on my phone,
it somehow autocorrects to yours.
i hope my paper crane name has made a nest in the back of your mind,
laying eggs that will hatch whenever you touch her,
so when you hold her hand,
the little crane in your skull says that only word it knows infinitely well:
táti.

Lone crane fly crying,
chasing mates went awry,
from despair swinging.

A construction crane,
Kisses skyscraper maiden
Red faced sun on edge.

WASHINGTON IRVING WROTE A NOVEL
ABOUT ICHABOD CRANE
LITTLE SLEEPY HOLLOW
WILL NEVER BE THE SAME

LITTLE SLEEPY HOLLOW WAS CURSED
BY A HORSEMAN MOST DREAD
HE WAS RIDING IN SLEEPY HOLLOW
IN SEARCH OF HIS HEAD

THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN WAS
IN THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR
SO FOR HIM SEARCHING FOR HIS HEAD
WAS NEVER A CHORE

ICHABOD CRANE WAS
A TEACHER MOST STRICT
WEATHER THE GHOST STORIES WERE TRUE
WHO COULD EVER PREDICT

ICHABOD TEACHES THE CHILDREN
OF FARMERS IN THE VILLAGE
BUT ITS THE YOUNG GIRLS OF FARMERS
HE SECRETLY WANTS TOO PILLAGE

KATRINA VAN TASSEL A
BEAUTIFUL YOUNG STUDENT
ICHABOD FALLS IN LOVE WITH HER
BUT WAS IT VERY PRUDENT

HE WAS INVITED TO THE TASSELS
FOR A PARTY MOST RARE
KATRINA AT THE PARTY
DISMISSES HIS WITHOUT CARE

ICHABOD LEAVES THAT NIGHT
ON HIS HORSE HE RIDES
ITS AN EERILY DARK PATH
HIS HORSE DOSE STRIDE

ICHABOD IS SCARED AND SEES
A LARGE DARK MAN
HE YELLS TO THE STRANGER
AS LOUD AS HE CAN

SO ICHABOD RIDES SCARED AND FAST
BUT ALONG SIDE COMES THE MAN
NOT WILLING TOO PASS

ICHABOD NOTICES THE RIDER
REALLY HAS NO HEAD
THIS JUST FILLS ICHABOD
WITH THE MOST SINFUL DREAD

ICHABOD AND THE STRANGER
RACE TO THE TOWN CHURCH
FOR THIS IS WHERE THE GHOST STORIES
FIRST CAME TO BIRTH

ICHABOD RACES TO THE BRIDGE
AND NERVOUSLY LOOKS BACK
THE STRANGER HAS DISAPPEARED
OFF THE GHOSTLY TRACK

BUT HE NOTICES THE STRANGER
HIS HEAD HE DOSE HURL
ICHABOD FALLS OF THE HORSE
HIS WORLD IS IN A WHIRL

THE NEXT DAY ICHABOD'S
HORSE FINALLY RETURNS HOME
WHERE IS ICHABOD
WHERE DID HE ROAM

THEY LOOK FOR ICHABOD
AND FIND HOOF PRINTS
AND ICHABOD'S HAT
SO NOW THE FOLKLORE IS BORN
IN SLEEPY HOLLOW THAT'S THAT

" WISDOM IS LIKE MANURE IT'S NO GOOD UNLESS IT'S SPREAD AROUND ENCOURAGING OTHERS TO GROW"

i came to you for a straight path
with no crossroads and walls at the sides
to lock in my free mind as best one can;

but you built my dreams back up instead
like collapsed buildings after a war
(which, in a way, they were);
you restored me at the start.

for pocket change, you took my soul
and folded it until it was an origami crane
that soared over mountaintops and deep blue seas
and lived off hopes and wishes and dreams;
a tiny piece of paper, flower print
that came to life to watch the foxtail valleys
and toblerone mountains of my mind
and it watched the memories of me riding among the clouds
and swimming in clear turquoise waters
and crying over friendships lost.
we will always remain that way
you form me, fold me, throw me into the air
while I remain, just cellulose, pliant, never my own -
yours to be ripped apart.

it was what i came for, after all.


cs

The first in over sixty years
The whooping cranes are living wild
Now one young pair has laid an egg
And, too, with luck, will raise their child

They near Kissimmee were released
Beating the odds, survived to breed
A ray of hope they might increase
And ***** the armor of human greed

But cranes need water as do we
As still we pump the wetlands dry
Our chains of lakes sprout fat resorts
The river of grass condemned to die

Yet dare we dream we might reverse
This harsh inflicted damage done
Still apathy is our nation's curse
Which battles none has ever won

Today I cheer the whooping cranes
Who still have hope that they might see
Upon some far and distant day
Their offspring's offspring flying free

the white crane
with paper wings
like paper planes
sails up above
and down
the muddy milky brown
it changes flight
goes out of sight
but its peace
will never leave me