Crease Pattern, Another Last Note from God


I lurk in possibility, folded into space too small, too narrow, too thin, too brief:
mountain-valley-squash-pleat. Arms bent one way, legs another. Fingers fanned. You
can turn me any direction to begin, but eventually, you must choose an orientation:
up/down, left/right, hot/cold, spirit/matter. I am not reversible. Maybe you’ll get
caught up in layers of complicated directions, follow every step to the letter, find I
look nothing like the picture. Perhaps you’ll backtrack – undo – try again. But each
attempt creates another wrinkle, and every wrinkle is a blemish, an unsightly line.
You will curse my creases and wad, shred, toss me out the window. Start over, sure
that you’ll succeed this time. Make me a flower, a little singing bird, a captive at the
top of a tall,  stone, stairless tower, the dragon that holds her there, his hoard, a
doorless chamber of precious jewels, an out of the way table in a corner of that room,
the plain box on the table, a box that holds my origami heart.


Wendy Vardaman