Origami anger,
folded in and folded in,
always twisting, recreating
always seeming like a smile.

Her hands grow strong,
but also learn,
that paper tears and
cuts as well.
She grows so tired
of patterns without change.

There soon will come
a rip,
a slice,
a crease that won’t lie flat.
And all the folds will fall.

She’ll then rip down
the wide, clear sky
and in the ancient art
of jaw and scale
will form the bluest boa . . .

almost lovely as it swallows
all the paper people down,
almost music at it spits
the bones of paperclips and pins.