I drape Leila
in a secret
and a promise.
I tell her
birds can’t fly in Kalma’s cage.
I tell her
I must go.
I tell her
not to tell anyone.
Leila listens,
her eyes staying on mine.
I dress my sister
in my birthday toob.
The billowy blue sheath
is too big,
but Leila refuses to let its spilling cotton
swallow her.
“I will fill it,” she says,
cinching its fabric,
sliding back the head drape
that slopes past her nose,
securing the sheer cloth closer to her ears.
“It fits you already,” I say.