My sister,  
             purpled, tender 
             as a hyacinth bulb,  

fitting in a palm, unfurling 
to petals, lungs—two grains of rice,  
crushed before first breath. 

             You were born that way— 
             my weight bore down  
             on your spine, 

broke it like a vine. 
For months, we shared  
a sac of sap. Two red roots. 

             Sheer pulps, we fluttered,  
             swirled. Lullabies  
             crooned in the dark. 

Women gathered  
to choose our names. 
Little pink bonnets, bows, 

             bought or hand-sewn  
             by grandmothers and aunts. 
             Some burned wild rue, esfand, 

hung amulets for evil eye, 
cheshm-zakhm. Our mother  
longed to hold you. 

             I was the killer  
             she swaddled. Your heart  
             beating in my mouth.