I have mastered the art
of making myself small;
the years have taught me
how to fold myself
step by step,
edge to edge
into pinwheels and paper lilies
mindlessly left in infinitesimal space —
an instinct —
a secret slipping into the unconscious,
left beneath the mattress,
left behind the doors.
The years — they've taught me
how to take my heart out —
take it apart and fold it
into a thousand paper cranes —
all cooped up in my ribs.
Their wings, decaying
with all the wishes
I never allowed myself to make.
Their beaks, pecking on the flowers,
on the wheels,
on my skin:
an obsession, a compulsion,
a ritual for symmetry,
a constant flipping,
a ceaseless folding,
until i am small enough —
insignificant enough to attract no attention,
to remain unseen, unheard,
unnoticed in the room.
And here, in this infinitesimal space
I have mastered the art
of making myself small.
