So tonight, reaching up to hold hands with these leaves stretching onto the back steps, I say: Please. Let this spell grow legs. Let my sisters’ names grow long as their hair. Long as they need to. Let their names rattle the night air with their incessant lungs. Let the sounds of their names burn blue in the night, let even their ugliest memories be named after the daughters of prophets, please, if there is a god named for the humble undersides of these leaves somehow not yet dead, let the names of my sisters make all the doors on my street fly open. Let every tree sleeping in our chests claw
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