I am born—kozo tree bark boiled
into paper. I dry, flat. Fingers fold me:
once, twice into isosceles triangles.
And then they unwrap me back
into a square. Some people may call
these new creases scars, but I know
they’re actually a guide.
Do fingertips not eddy and purl?
Sometimes your body becomes
your own map. I bend again.
This time my four corners fold inward,
like the wings of seraphim hiding
face and feet. I somersault and twist.
Believe it or not, I’m not the silent type.
You can’t shake the trapezoids, triangles,
or squares out of me. But I do jangle,
a flag clapping in the wind.
My density increases as fingers
press their oil and heat into me.
More turning like a pinwheel, more reliefs
folding into a hinged diptych.
Ah, the depth!
I’ve grown into a new dimension.
When I open, yes, eyes can see
my wrinkles and creases. But I can also hold
so much music. Like jasper and beryl,
I refract light, shining.