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for my sister   At least the supple mirage of sisterhood; a fleshy lap, a string of pulp-flowers in her hair-   after that, mehfooz- her forehead draped by my hand tracing intricacies of sleep   But nani’s laceration is her father’s milk and I am succulent with its curdle   Did you know mama’s budmouth moves in my cheeks, still suckling from that darkened breast?   I have become thorned to stomach it, and still within me the stain is turgid – let me say one last time I was harmed   The memory of wetness remains no matter which body, no matter how warned   So swollen, I stop bringing her mama’s nightsilk chador and   I didn’t do it to hurt you jaana, I only ever wanted you unbreakable but when I bend to kiss your hands, my tongue is still a soaked lash