Monday, June 24, 2013

Still, the heartache

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,
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. 


  1. I hope it's okay, but I'm going to steal on of your lines for 10-line Tuesday...this is so beautiful, Jean.

  2. So happy Maya shared the link to your blog. Love this vividly beautiful poem.