She starts with bookcases,

ingenious designs that hinge

on the shelves, the sides, ready

to fold on a moment’s notice.

 

Her lover holds disdain,

like the shelves hold books

she reads each night, and folds

dreams in their pages.

 

She covets a foam bed

that folds into a couch.

 

Even her new bistro table folds

thin as the balcony rail so it becomes

transportable, unobtrusive.

 

In Safeway, she finds a survivalist’s tool,

utensils that fold in like a fan:

fork, knife, spoon.

 

Nothing is permanent.

Clothes fold into suitcases.

 

Like the letter he wrote folds

into the envelope that slips

into her purse,

evidence.

Lisa Cheby is a Los Angeles poet and educator. She received an MFA from Antioch University, worked on the Board of Directors of the Valley Contemporary Poets, and is the new editor of Annotation Nation Poetry. Go to her website for reading and publication information: lisacheby.wordpress.com