Two men carry in a new mattress,
then wrap the old set with plastic,
double layers. First a fiery red,
then clear. If I could, I would ask
that they take it to a landfill in
Juneau. Tokyo. Far away.
If money allowed, I would replace
everything you touched.
The floors that creak with your feet,
the silverware with your mouth.
You remember Nagasaki,
the pictures you saw in seventh grade,
shadows left after the vaporization.
Tonight, I hope you dream of me.
That you make one thousand cranes
from paper so thin it feels like skin.
That the origami sparks to life,
a murmuration of wings, hot heat.
They spin and swoop around you,
and decide, finally, to fly away.
I hope you wake with a gasp,
a thousand flutters in your heart.
And you know it was me
who sent you the dream,
the paper, the birds, the folding,
the creases, the leaving,
the sound of wings, so close
and then, far away, so silent.