Some fly honest and straight, proud as promises. One sailed clean across the alley and landed in Mrs. Cho’s hydrangeas— she laughed and pressed it between pages of a book. Another looped and rolled, making a slow, shy spiral before nestling under a parked bicycle’s chain. I imagine each one carrying a word: please, sorry, hello, maybe. Mostly they carry small rebellions—wishes to go farther than paper allows.
I launch them from the sill at dusk, when the streetlamps flicker awake and the cats argue about corners. They catch the last heat of the day and lift on borrowed breaths, tracing lazy arcs above laundry lines and sleeping porches. Neighbors below murmur like ocean glass; a dog barks somewhere and my planes tip, wobble, then find a surprising steadiness. my paper planes poem kenneth wee
On rainy nights I press them to the radiator so the glue remembers its job, then practice longer throws in the living room, avoiding the lamp. There are designs for speed and for grace, folds learned by repetition: valleys folded like lungs, wings sharpened like questions. I measure success not by distance but by the route—who sees them glide, which windows tilt open, which curtains twitch. Some fly honest and straight, proud as promises
