Not all the spells you cast will last,
especially the fearful and frantic. Never trust
tilted tulips or people who become short
of breath around shipwrecks. Anything folded
in on itself looks like a rose if held
closely enough. Wear all my jealous jewelry
on your right wrist, in your twisted hair, under
your tongue. A group of relatives you’ve never met
is called a garden—tend to them. Be wary
of women who stitch dried leaves
of lavender into lace window sheers—
clearly no one should believe memory
can be melted into scent. If you learn
a new language, teach it also to your shadow.
We can’t have you trailing vowel sounds
behind your back in unfamiliar shades
of lilac and black. When you first visit
the city of your birth, it is best to go
with a poor sense of self—you are not the resin
that will harden into amber, not the insect
trapped inside—you are the time it took to form
the insect’s wings—specifically the veining,
the green-gold sheen. And write down everything.
Stranger sisters have slipped though history’s tepid grip.