three sisters

They say that the market

is disappearing;

life on the Mekong

as brutal as a

Vietnamese bed.

We were sipping tea

the mother and her eldest

laid next to a bowl of fruit,

when the girls shout

and wave from land.

They row a tiny boat

with their stick thin arms

and climb aboard the

cluster of boats

tied with rope

they call home.

The youngest

comes running with

a piece of paper;

she jumps up and down

and squeals in delight

as she holds

the paper to her chest

– her existence

etched forever

on a school certificate.

The middle sister

observes the youngest

and the guests.

No squealing

or jumping or

unstoppable chattering,

yet her pride is palpable

in the uniform

neatly framing

her childish body.

I imagine their mother

making frames

out of driftwood,

and the girls’ beaming

smiles as their

older sister hammers

in the boat where

they go to sleep

– two papers

marking the tide of time.