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.