Deceptive Origami
beth Mcdonough
Greyed in from the Baltic, that car-stacked
shade longs by Abertay sands
silents the river’s gullet at floodtide.
Behind cafe-thick glass
some woman thinks a smile
stills out at that passing
achromatic bulk.
Past damp sleet-leak, this vessel darks
towards cloud-burn, into the bright shaft,
onto oiled light’s unlikely spill.
Napkin soft, she folds that sharked form
into small squat fishing boat comfort
shapes her Craigie Aitchison boat.
Her head curves
to conversations. Next table’s
forensic experts sift
autopsies, dig how we lived,
able to scalpel facial misery wastes
remaining in muscles
or happiness read from the habitual click
wear of jaws. She accepts
whatever floats their boats.
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