by Eleanor Goldfield

Feeling small and idealess – I folded in –

like wrinkled napkins again and again –

creases cramped and smaller I went –

just to feel how it felt to feel – sealed –

closed I hoped to save my soul – from the wreckage I already owned

but the spill of humanity, these waves of insanity

seeped into my folds –

soaked into my brain –

stained the remains of a mind already lined – with layers of paint

self applied and projectile splashed – the present now passed, relax

Can I unfold and make homes of these ruined grooves –

can I fill these beds with a river’s resolve –

can I stretch out and feel – that all I have lost –

imprints like wrinkled napkins – I can dry off

and a malleable persistence, imperfect but mine.