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.  

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