I have folded my sorrows into the sheets
and hauled them to the washer.
They will emerge from the process cleaner
and a little more threadbare. I have also
folded them into the newspaper where
they can be recycled, broken down
then reassembled into a product once again
useful. I fold and fold, thinking of those
days when a clear sky signaled stars
and curtains of northern lights enfolding
the grief of night itself. I am such
a puny beast that imagining the vastness
of the universe reduces my life to the over-
lapping squares of a pocket handkerchief
or the foil candy wrapper I turn down on
one side then blanket with the other.
Sometimes the foil strip is large enough
to crease with my thumbnail and reduce again
to half. You can make a ring with it then
and pretend to a wedding—a kind of
alchemy, mixing love with silver or
gold, all the sadness hidden inside.
Here, I’ve made an altar and bouquet.
The bride waits in camouflage, her white
blossoms already unfolding, spilling
sorrow into the future.