2.

          Anything that is redundant, and I watch
                             my sister tiptoe into this dried up ribbon the neighborhood

         calls The River. For a long time, nothing but a canal. How long,
                             who knows. In these ripples Bipradas counted

        the syllables of his rhyme. Once upon a time. Inside my sister
                             Tombur's fingers, small bones, opaque eyes— guppy corpses

         and mosquito bites, red as rose petals. Tombur closes
                           her fist around: crumbling myths, stories of blood offerings.

         We both have memorized the morality behind
                         the story— this is the only way a seedling can spring.

         What we didn't yet know, were the anecdotes
                         with or without morality for us to memorize.