by Rajrishi Das

Mother cried when my Sister’s skin grew dark. 
Bled her tears like the Ganges
        they began to drift apart.
Sister didn’t cry. She didn’t make a sound.
But She forgot how to smile
        bit her tongue as She drowned.
It didn’t really matter 
when my skin grew brown.
Boys could afford to be ugly
        it wouldn’t hold me down.
But I learned from my Sister 
that I could never cry
        so I watched my Sister bleed
        Stayed silent as She died.
It was only when we found the bleach
        That we began to cry.