Dear Grace

You unfolded the origami, piece by piece, explained

it is better to see things as they are, rather than how you wish

them to be. A crease is a memory, a mistake you can’t quite

erase. When I first saw you, I knew you were a map I couldn’t

read, islands imperceptible among many bodies of water.

The shortest distance—we’re always concerned

with the shortest distance; geometry too precise, too

unimaginative. On a large enough map, everything appears

small. From a distance, you resemble everyone I’ve ever

touched. You keep me tucked away—an empty envelope,

edges sharp & exact. We make good shapes. But what else

do we make? On occasion, you unfold me, trace my

periphery. There are sketches you start and don’t know

how to finish. There are others you never begin.

 

Matthew Heston is a writer and performer living in Chicago. His poems have also appeared in Cacti Fur and Rust + Moth.

 

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