Two sisters with black bangs like their mom   celebrating the bulb   that chose to light the room   they shared with mom and dad.      I saw one’s socks, her shoes were with holes.   I saw one’s well-worn hands.   Still they jumped and still   they clutched their gifts so tight.      You might cry for me,   but I cry for you no more.      With their heads on my shoulders,   one read a verse that she knew.   The other colored paper.   Their father laughed.      In this desert, within walls   of cinder block and foam,   I saw blessings received,   yet hearts kept pure.      I cry for you no more.