American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry

Sabrina Orah Mark

where I fold and unfold my left arm into November, my hair
         into my sister,
where the black-gloved woman plays my heart like a crumpled
         violin,
where I stand creased and lusting for paper, where I have no
         more dead lovers
than you, where beautiful girls are always asked for directions,
where I keep myself real, flirting with the ventriloquists,
where my father holds me like a paper doll, where doors can be
         torn down
swiftly, where neither one of us is a miracle,

I understand only this:

It is lonely in a place that can burn so fast.

— Sabrina Orah Mark, “In The Origami Fields,” The Babies. (Saturnalia; 1st Edition edition, November 15, 2004)

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