when she told me, Sadako-chan,
if you fold one thousand paper cranes
from both edges of Hiroshima halved black in one day,

the gods grant one wish, while my friend held to one superstition.
Giving birth to a crane takes hands to press, seal,
and kissing paper wrinkles are proof that my swelling flushed nape
and the evanescent blue pulsing of my arms are only like

puffed winter coats to be peeled in the promising melting
warmth of Okaa-san’s tea slipping steadily down my throat. And my friend told me while
creasing crisp gold paper it’ll take one at a time, so I think I’ll tell her now that
644 Guidae have taken flight on their own to tell me
atom-bomb sicknesses are winds weathered softly on paper wings
– the only birds unsinged in thunderous eruptions – so take me,
my friends, nakama-tachi,
on your backs from spilling hospital hands to racing breezy skies,

because 356 more await