Day 437

They were inseparable, the two girls.
Sisters, four years apart; but they looked
like twins except for the height.  Their names
rhymed, their smiles rhymed, they loved
the same stories.  At night they would lie
in their beds and talk until their mother
had to come and quiet them.  In the morning
they called out together for breakfast, got ready
for school together, walked together with matching
backpacks, found each other as the day wore on
in the hallways, on the playground.  Now they sleep
in the same grave, one grave for the two of them.
They will sleep there forever, inseparable.
Their mother visits them, carries
in her pockets small shreds she could find
of their clothing to keep them close
to her, stained
with the blood of one of them?  Both?