Origami

At night I close my eyes and let my thoughts
become my feelings, let my feelings point their corners  

into dark corners. I fold the word daughter
over and over until it contains the word duty.  

I’ve heard there’s a Kenyan tribe that makes paper
by filling their mouths with dust and water.  

They flatten that paste onto stones and fold it 
into envelopes they send to Japan  

where eleven-year-old Siberian girls 
wait in tiny pleated apartments to be models.  

I pull at the skin and the fat 
on my hip bones, and the bones beneath 

become sharp as hangers. Watching a thing 
become another thing makes me hopeful: watching string  

turn into the Eiffel tower 
with only three fingers and a mouth pulling up its peak  

is a mystery I should write down. 
Instead, I’m here on my bed in the dark 

watching this girl on YouTube demonstrate 
Jacob’s ladder, witch’s broom, cat’s cradle. 

Her hands are so deft. Her transformations effortless.
In real time they twist away and vanish.