Russian Dolls

A bird fell.

Dropped out of formation.

Had a heart attack.

Fell from the sky.

I don’t adventure far, the sun could swallow me, and the dark--it lurks with shadows. Jets travel so fast, their trails escape them. I’ve seen birds die from the tipping of a paper crane; the anxiety of falling and failing, in front of judging stares. 

There’s stacked Russian dolls cozied up inside me, and they bicker like siblings or generations. My therapist suggested a misdiagnosis, which cracked one doll out of another, creating a dispute over my identity. I folded an origami crane, with my otherwise idle fingers and observed it on the windowsill, like a sun dial, or an airplane,

and waited for its decision.