Behind the Screen

I fold myself into an origami flower,
slip myself, a bookmark, between
ruled lines on foxed pages.

I am the postcard you never sent,
the stranger’s photograph, face down
beneath the Bible in a hotel drawer,

I am coarse cotton stuck to your thigh,
pollen scratching your eye, sweat
drying in an airless, darkened room.

I flatten myself, fine as regret,
a Klimt embrace, a twisted kiss,
an after-image you wish you could forget.