literature

Wishing Cranes--C.

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betwixtthepages's avatar
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Literature Text

The street-level apartment,
abandoned from wear and tornado
last spring, tells us love stories
in graffiti inscriptions.

Close enough to the road
that it leans looming over it,
the complex slumps, unused,
except by an eight year old boy;
old enough to have been told not to
and young enough to not understand.

He has hands that stutter—
hesitate—
because he folds paper
like he seals envelopes:
with purpose.

He has a mind that isn't reluctant;
why wish upon a star
when the beings
that can grant wishes
are in the spaces
between constellations?

Together, his head and hands
craft paper cranes.

Between knotted levels of rope,
cranes spread layered wings
and bob, breath-like,
waiting.

He molds shapes
out of hangers,
nestling his dreams
into metal and numbered pages.

He has soul in his eyes
and heart in his palms;
why doubt the beauty of self
when he can craft it
from discarded treasures?

A sound heard from his right tightly
to loosely on his left: an injured bird
is cultivated on the curbside.

Its head is down, staying down;
its wing up, staying up.

But the bird breathes: down, up.

In the alley,
his hanging garden of paper birds
on knotted levels of rope
bob, breath-like,
anticipating.

Why make a thousandth crane
when he can save a real one?

Little bird,
feathers splint with tape
and a popsicle stick--
nestled tight with his dreams.

He stands on tiptoes,
reaching, reaching;
clips the fabric boat
to metal hook
and lets it slide.

And he spins
among the cranes below,
a garden waltzing to his beat,
thin wings fluttering above the street,
and he waits
for his bird to fly home.

Why put yourself out on a limb
for happiness
if there's no one to share the song with?

He doesn't doubt his happiness
out on the limb of an apartment balcony
because the chirp-trill of a nursed bird
is inexpensive to heal.

He catches rocks
instead of wishing stars
and collects them
on thick twine,
his heart scrawled--
a different kind of poetry--
across torn pages
because the beings 
might not hear him,
but someone will.

His small hands clasp,
stutter against,
release bits of him
throughout the sky
because life has to be more
than dimming stars...

and the belief
that not everyone
is worth being saved.
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Sammur-amat's avatar
i adore you two :heart: