A leaf turns
into a hand—
veined and open.
The yolk
of an egg cracked
into a bowl
is the sun
which is France last summer
where we ate sour grapes
from the vine.
A can of ginger beer rolls
around in the fridge:
the last one
he ever bought.
Stars are gods
or eyes. Nighttime
decides. I unfold
an origami crane, lay it flat
and it’s my skin: scarred
by someone’s careful work.
Holding the paper square, I turn
myself into a bird.
Up here, the clouds billow over
my unscarred body.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 5.
Molly Johnsen holds an MFA from Syracuse University. Her work can be found in Nashville Review, Indiana Review and others. She lives in Vermont.
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