My sister’s cries
hounded me.
Virgin-blood seeped
into my bed
like spilled wine,
offering itself as proof:
look. See what he did.
Her voiceless mouth
arranged the words
like I had arranged myself,
wrapped in silk pink as
rose-hearts to wait
for him, his
hungering tongue.
Mouth full,
she choked on syllables
and shreds of flesh—
red spattered on her
hurried fingers as she
wove, making quick work
with fine thread.
I read and knew,
lips wrapped around a
bird’s caw
as we leapt into night.
My call is hoarse
beside hers—
her song is liquid moon,
quicksilver and catching.
I trace it
wing upon wing.