I traded texts with my sister
about her furitive plans to honor
our mother, a Buddhist
in a Baptist land of hellfire and brimstone.
I read of her rebellious triumphs, now mine too,
small things with significance only to us
and to our dead mother:
The direction our mother faced in death.
How to hide her prayer beads on her corpse
so the evangelicals wouldn’t take them away.
The dress my sister wore.
And I sat in my office, in black, while
a fragile bird crashed into my window
over and over again.