Origami Girl

They say you’ve got a thing for heroin.
They tell me things have changed,
that I wouldn’t recognize you.

They say you’re an origami girl,
guided by men’s strange hands.
Yesterday you were a fish,
today you resemble a rose.  Tomorrow
your mother will knock on the bathroom door
to find you blue
in the face.
With your legs askew,
your arms outstretched,
your clothes not on,

the medic will mistake you for a swan.

Though you’re swimming in some ocean
I don’t want to know,
I won’t tell you to pull yourself together.
I remember our small chests rising and falling
as we chased each other around the yard,
in girl-time,

I hold you
and unfold your lungs,
untie your tongue,
take the needle out of your arm,
pick your dreams up off the ground,
dust them off on my jeans,
and pin them back on your dress.