for Jon


The truth is

I’ve never folded a thousand paper cranes.


Unless you count

every time

one of us


picked last

in gym class


every time

we choked on our own names.


Every time

our mothers got drunk


and we forgot.


If you count

every time

we folded in half


every time

her heart

showed too much skin


every time

he used

poetry to say goodbye


you would know what I know,


that we think we are too thin to hold ourselves up

but we take shape for each other.


We are corners,

we are wings.

And every thousand

I make more or less

the same wish:



believe me when I tell you

how bent and beautiful

you are.