Origami objects always begin with two base folds, 

the Mountain & the Valley, to lead to any number of outcomes.  

—A Catalogue of Simple Pleasures

I. Phoenix, AZ, 1983: The Mountain Fold

Bobby Ball Agency on East Thomas Rd 

sent me on the casting call for 12-year-olds

where none knew we’d practice kiss 

a stranger from a row of boys set loose 

 

by clipboard talent agents. For a camera 

kiss, Wrigley corporate taught us the fold:

“Fold a stick of gum, scored like a spear, 

in thirds on your tongue: back, front, back;

 

stare in middle distance, where spearmint

resides—The cool refreshing feeling puts 

a little lift in everything you do …—

& lean in for the peck.” Wait, here:

 

where I learn to master a tongue-fold 

to company standards, feigning disinterest 

in the salty trail of Todd’s or Keith’s lips,

his Origami Mount Fuji stowing away

fold infrastructures to support future folds. 

 

II. Anchorage, AK, 1986: The Valley Fold

36^th Ave Micky D’s sourced real cheesy eggs 

to poach for the morning McMuffin, surprising 

us lower-48ers summering in Alaska &

matching in uniforms, our wide collars open. 

 

On cig breaks, boys on grill crew showed us 

counter girls flexing flouts to corporate regs,

sweaty underwear discarded from below

polyester waistbands, trainee hats creased 

 

in Mc-apron pockets, spotted with grease.

Every first gathers here, in narrow pleats, 

like my own paper crew hat, flattened 

then repurposed into a 4^th-of-July fan, 

 

enfolding the permed me then—flustered 

by buttocks confined to stripey pants 

sans buffer—with the me now, aligning 

valleys of memory inside a napkin where               

every fold constrains a space for the next. 

 

III. Carefree, AZ, 1988: The Mountain Fold

Sighing behind a polished plate glass 

at Hum & Ho Rd, I measured Sweet 

Suzan’s choc-chip dough, spaced apart

on buttered sheets: a sugary series 

 

of neat inversions in a doughy row

of lover’s knots that expand in heat,

then curl in, like my torso bent waist deep

inside our glass-dome display counter:

 

I tested each signature ice cream 

with a fistful of spoons; from mint chip,

cherry mascarpone & coconut, to fudge 

ripple, I dragged my industrial scooper 

 

to coax out the peanut-brittle nuggets 

until late customers triggered our bell 

& I bumped my head on the cold glass

of these odd summer gigs, unpleated so           

folds can be unfolded with histories intact.