Lillace Kenta
Paper Crane
at night he dreams of vast landscapes. is called into bodies of water, forests and fields filled with ripe canola. wakes in the morning expecting to find himself powdered. the colour of the sun. a great loss stirring at the sight of his soft, brown skin
and always, his wife. already folding back the corner of the sheet. and herself out of sleep. putting space between the night. between him and his dreams
a good woman. he knows by the callouses on her prayer worn knees. the depth of the furrow on her brow. and the taste of warm soups. but also a woman who owns never to have dreamt
to simply fall each night into an endless song of darkness. as though she was a book laid flat on the nightstand. a lamp switched off. plunging into silent nothingness
and so he has learned how to spare her the bruising of his imagination. to love is to keep his dreams to himself. to likewise fold himself out of bed. a paper crane who only spreads his wings at night
