Ke Huang

Murals of glass and steel towered over me,
I crouched to the balcony, dragging a volume of Yellow Pages.
Any leaf would do but I picked the one scant of ink.
Tearing it I heard the sheet’s secret,
and imagined shredding a golden pleat.

A rectangle I shaped,
a crease,
rip,
fold,
and twist.

One paper helicopter rested on my palm,
I kissed for good luck before flinging.

Its wings spun,
whirled,
twirled...

"Mimi," father called. I darted inside.
A breeze fluttered the paper creation.