Sestina

      There’s a sister who works so hard she never talks.

      A sister who screams when she hears dogs bark.

      A sister whose breasts have grown dry. A sister who always hides.

      There’s a time comrades come to the hut.

      They can’t tell who’s who—How many are you?

      Where’s the other one hiding? That sister stays close,

      somewhere in a hole, closed off with dirt.

      Sometimes she sits with the sister whose baby lacked milk.

      In her place of hiding, she cries, thinks of comforting words

      but her mouth goes dry. In a far village,

      where works the sister who never talks: the sunset.

      Finally, it’s her chance. Time to run back,

      but this time an owl screeches. She closes her eyes.

      She disappears, pretends she’s the one who can fly.

      That sister so quiet. How does that sister stay quiet?