the finger branches of the rose tree stand upright, 15 feet tall, watching
mother give her child khathingla the last red biscuit. pigs and fowl/watch
too. for days they had worked for the festival. at best she would survive
four more hours.she bends over, a-tip in her delirium, kissing her little daughter.
the daughter in her sleep pushes her away. one last short fairy tale has made her eyelid heavy in motion. somewhere the prisoner is happy,/ and the rice plants stout and heavy