At night they went,

not muffling their footfalls,

to wake us one by one

and draw our blood.

At first I resisted, because

I resisted everything.

My voice was my sharp. They served us coloring pages (to rip) and Honey Maid graham

crackers (to crumble). Someone changed the linens,

I don’t remember who. Someone prescribed the snow, the pages,

the radio, the crumbling. I don’t remember who.

There were a lot of us.

We were a choir of little waxy paper cups.

At first I resisted because

I resisted everything. I cited every law I understood.

My voice was matted and ripped.

The nurse spoke French.

Ça va aller, she said.

We were a choir of little waxy paper cups.

We made hats out of them,

before we crumbled them,

and fairy houses,

before we unseamed them with our fingernails.

We made paper chains.

On Sundays we would crayon long lines

on construction paper and crease it,

wet it with saliva and bend it

back and forth

back and forth

back and forth

til it tore clean.