Dragonflies

She made paper birds on the porch
and once she’d given them eyes to see,
she shut them away in soap boxes
and stacked them beneath the steps
like old toys growing dusty in the attic.

Sometimes she’d use tissue instead,
and sometimes those birds tore their wings
and managed to fly up and away, taken
by wind and clouds with no love for paper,
or they’d catch the horizon and swoop.

On sunny days, the sand would shine
and she’d make parchment horses
to gallop the distance home again, scattering
paper crumbs between the seashells
and breaking their legs in the fall.

Sandals left out in the rain fall apart
as those birds watch the dune grasses grow
longer through their breathing holes.
They witness the dragonflies dying
when it rains, sinking with origami flowers.

It’s the paper-cut that makes her stop
– the slice of blood that makes her consider
Science at work – and wonder if she is God
to the boxed birds, and to the dragonflies
she burns, wing-tips first.