From where I sit I see the white
steeple of the brown church
where no one prays.
Signs say, Save the heart
of the neighborhood. The cardiac
transplant surgeon paces the halls
in Italian heels awaiting
fatal accidents. Upstairs
her only mother lies dying.
Let me not yet capitulate. Let me serve
tea in antique cups. Let me not close
the drawer on the kitten. Let me
not cause harm. I pledged
my marrow but my cells in the end
were no longer required.
Dear matched sister in the sky,
Today I had to pause
for a pair of mallards crossing.
How well we know them
from the tooth-marked story
mothers read and read aloud.
Dear stranger sister mine,
Yoo hoo! Here I am.
Still alive.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 3.
Ann Pelletier is the author of Letter That Never (The Word Works). She lives in Santa Cruz, California.
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