I fold origami figures out of Post-it Notes
for my students—mementos for our last class.
I pair Aqua Splash with Guava, Acid Lime

with Iris Infusion, stick them back-to-back—
not easy to manipulate with aching fingers.
Fingers crimping and pressing ever since Mom

taught me how when I was little. The first figure
I learned was a tsuru, a nineteen-fold crane
symbolizing good fortune and longevity.

My ojiichan made them from silver paper
to sell for gas during the Depression. He drove
the family in a jalopy from Brooklyn to L.A.,

boarded a ship to Japan before the war.
I tell my class the word “poet” comes from
the Greek poiētēs, meaning “maker.”

Like creasing precise folds in a paper square,
the poet pens their voice on a blank page.
I pass on this making to my students.

Each takes a turn stepping up to the podium,
reads their poems, and before sitting back down,
picks out a tiny lily, crane, or ninja star.

Certain information about the poet’s grandfather Shinkichi Hoshino comes from the blog 落合学 (落合道人)
(https://tsune-atelier.seesaa.net).