Haiku

One thousand paper
Cranes for my grandmother but
She died at fourteen.

Frame

I've seen her
stooping over the creosote
tracing the veins pulsing
through her wrist,
frail,
the bony planes of her desert hands.

And maybe she's seen me, too.

Pensive in the coolness
cataloging the breaths that
blow through her chest;
exhale
marking each one with a scratch on the wall.

waiting

to be Freed.