A Day in June
Sister, sister, the one I never had—
spilled out of her skin. Saffron to crimson hue
shadowed the grin of silver pails; her bed,
left on log bridge through marsh, freckled with dew
like wood pillars that prop our bungalow
on still water. She, who calls for my aid
when all is dark beyond the salt wind’s throe—
her throat earth-brown, her hair the twisting braid
of mangrove roots—would be woman today.
Outside our door, neighboring schoolboys chilled
by their recollections reengage to spray
the moss-scented rainwater that once filled
vessels when she transposed beyond our house.
Mother clings to the yellowed baby blouse.