Paper Flower

I am the paper flower.
See how they’ve folded me?
I rest on the table when the students have gone,
while the woman grades papers at her desk.
I lie, limpid rose,
with paper petals that spread in the silence.

Shuffling essays, a million misreadings
that never touch the palpitating point.
Just look and see, “What the Savage realizes is that…”
Or even worse: “Bottle babies and terror of the Mother.”
This one finds “A warning to the future.”
No brave new readings here.

I am the paper flower.
Won’t you look at me?
Won’t you learn my every fold and crease,
and relish my complexity?
I am surface and decoration,
and I die to be seen.

She frowns and marks a red “A” with a red pen.
As good as she’d hoped for,
but nothing that connects.
The world’s still new to them,
and even the ones who know don’t know… yet.
Warn them not to be ruled with pleasure.

I am the paper flower.
Too late, she finds me on a little desk,
and who can tell if that’s recognition on her face?
I am not unfolded.
I am not examined.
She tosses me in the trash on her way out.

(Photo credit: "Flower by Chris Palmer folded by Andrea Acosta" from Jorge Jaramillo on Flickr)

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