This chick calls herself an artist, but
that's just because they took away her pole.

I'd give him what she does, if he'd let me,
but they say you can't call yourself someone's wife
unless he agrees.

So I find myself, a distressing accidental,
my face one of those party ribbons gone limp
hovering over the bottomless pit

a gawky, raven-haired, pale blue woman
words trapped in the tangle of affection
one thin slip of gossamer between myself and dissolving.

True to myself, I never once confronted him
things work out, I told myself
everyone gets repaid, one way or the other

Me?  Back to zero, after all I'd managed
Still, I know, in the wish of getting wrong right
I might still forgive him

everything

Paper cranes are a popular and simple origami figure. There is an old Japanese legend that says anyone who folds 1000 paper cranes will be granted a wish by a crane. I personally don't know how this is supposed to work, whether you're supposed to find a real crane to ask, ask one of the paper ones, or whether a crane should appear before you in a puff of smoke upon completion of the 1000th paper bird, demanding that you make your wish because its time is valuable.

Attempting the feat remains quite popular however. There's even a technique called Renzuru for folding multiple cranes from a single sheet of paper. I know all of this because my friend Landon decided to embark on the spiritual journey of folding a thousand paper cranes, his goal being to complete the set in less than a year. He maintained that he'd do fine if he folded three a day. However he tended toward bursts of 50 or so, usually doing his renzuru-ing in the backseat of my car. I have so many paper cranes littering my car, I'm surprised that it hasn't yet taken flight. Maybe when Landon finishes his quest, the magic crane will appear in my backseat and give me his wish instead.