Risley: Routine in which one
juggles the other on his feet.
Jun has dreamed fifteen years worth of escape
yet still wakes beside his sister, shadow
of his sunned skin, same bangs grazing mute brows.
He helps Bing sheathe her breasts in red silk tape;
she does not tremble. He does not see her
trembling, Mama Jing’s dying bed recalled
with each cotton fold to cushion the small
of his back. He suits his skin in silver,
chalks palm and soles.
Could she forgive her son
for this nightly act of unconception?
Bing’s head, knees, tucked tight—Mama’s egg, dumb dot
of life—while Jun’s calves push, fishswim beyond
their birth. Breath free just in that thin moment
between Bing falling and Bing being caught.
