I folded my corners, ironed them

to leave crisp lines and matched corners.

Put my feet in the linens closet,

set my knees in the sun light again.

Heat melts the pains and makes the aches and cramps crawl.

Skittering off on tiny legs

to wait, as chronic things often do,

strung to me as thin as a spider web

on a gate. Invisible to you

in the corner of every room

is not an elephant, just the breath

of a ghost. Not a Halloween monster,

a mask. No note, a wrinkled blank page

in a pocket, ripped from an old book

store my teeth in my pill organizer

and I try not to forget to take them.

As for my face, hide it in the corner

under the laundry pile where I think

it looks best. My body never irons

out as smooth, place it next to the old one

that no longer fits in the chest.

And maybe I’ll fold my lips last and leave

them on the table. Just in case

someone finally were to ask