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Peace

Wisdom becomes you
the paper crane says,
flaps its origami wings.

You have just finished folding it,
hands poised in midair
when again the words come out,
rustle the tiny beak like a leaf
on water.

You clutch the neck and feet,
think: oh delicate
this bird could break so easy.
The creases tickle your palms
as you smooth the paper.

Watch the baited hook
it speaks again
and you look around
like a folded puppet,
like you were really a fish
caught in water at Hiroshima.

But even a thousand cranes
cannot change history
so you squeeze the paper,
check for blood.

Carefully the wings fold down,
the legs retract.
The beak closes, holds its breath
until you look again:
an eye tiny as a speck
peers up.

This is no dancing crane
you muse quietly to yourself.
The crane speaks no more
as you tuck it onto a windowsill.

You leave it there for many years,
afraid it might speak again,
afraid it might not.

© 2004 Christine Klocek-Lim