ghosts

there are ghosts living in her paper skin
paper not because it’s thin but since she can fold
herself into an origami crane and sit like a cat
statue in the windowsill watching clouds
the ghosts of rains come and gone to mist crops
and fill wells or flood streets
water to wash away her sins of wrongdoing
and scrub her soul pure ghost-white like
twenty bones slicing through the paper flesh

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