I know she folds left over right
folding, with care, my fork, my spoon, not for me, or you, but for the sake of folding
and I do not know her thoughts, if she thinks of boys or girls, or if her earrings match
the green in her shirt, or if that last paper she wrote was as good as she wished.
I know she folds left over right, quietly spoon over knife, the ring on
her right hand glinting in the dim light
and that is all we do