Out in the yard, my sister and I
tore thread from century plants
to braid into bracelets, ate
chalky green bananas,
threw coconuts onto the sidewalk
to crack their hard, hairy skulls.
The world had begun to happen,
but not time. We would live
forever, sunburnt and pricker-stuck
our promises written in blood. Not yet
would men or illness distinguish us,
our thoughts cleave us in two.
If she squeezed sour calamondines
into a potion, I drank it. When I jumped
from a fig tree, she jumped.
by Trish Crapo
from Walk Through Paradise Backward
Slate Roof, 2004