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  • Folding
  • Christopher Childers (bio)

FOLDING

Six folds, four seconds each.I count them out by twelves.There's quotas I must reach.My hands move by themselves.

I count them out by twelvesand add one to the stack.My hands move by themselves.I fold them in the back.

I add more to the stack,correct and elegant.I fold them in the backand send them to the front.

Correct and elegant,still creased, unsullied still,they file out to the frontand the unavoidable:

creased and unsullied tillexposed on meaty lapsto unavoidableassaults of sauce and scraps.

They sprawl on meaty lapsas smears and streaks accrueof lipstick, sauces, scraps,breadcrumbs, wine-stains, ragout.

And still the streaks accrueand finally muddle them [End Page 254] with crumbs, wine-stains, ragout,drool, phlegm, and pot de crème,

till someone muddles themoff in the laundry van—drool, phlegm, and pot de crème—to wash and starch again.

Off in the laundry van!The washing cycle putsthe starch back in again,absolving all their schmutz,

so this recycled putzcan do his one poor trick.Absolved of all their schmutz,they're positively Orphic.

I do my one poor trick;my hands move by themselves.It's positively Orphic.The counting goes by twelves.

My hands move by themselves.There's quotas I must reach.I count them out by twelves.Six folds, four seconds each. [End Page 255]

Christopher Childers

CHRISTOPHER CHILDERS has published poems, essays, and translations in The Kenyon Review, The Yale Review, Literary Matters, and elsewhere. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

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