Her history
has been forgotten,
Erased to
make room for nothing.
Her face is used
origami paper;
Creased but now unfolded.
She might have been a soaring crane once,
Or a lotus
flower, or a jumping frog,
Or perhaps a butterfly in one life or another—
But she
couldn’t tell you of it now.
There are no
words there,
No story, as
if she’d never lived;
Her past a
wrinkled, blank scrap
Lacking clues
to her previous existence.
She rocks in
her chair,
Repeating
daily the motions of living,
As if just
waiting to be crumpled
Into a ball
and thrown away.
