tossed back, her hair pre-cancer,
down to her shoulders. Is there music playing?
Where are we heading? What did she last
say that's given her face such life?
I’m riding shotgun down River Rd.
while she, with her hands, dimpled at the knuckle,
with her calico eyes, with the rarefied air
of the miraculous, shapes the dream-way
and fills the car with her elemental
addition to the periodic chart.
At the curve, by Korbel’s rows
of champagne vines, we admit it’s too hot
for sleeves, and while I take the wheel,
she unpeels her jersey, and pulls it over
her head, and for those seconds I am her
eyes and her hands, she, in her bra
and ebullience, bubbling up from wherever
my dead sister usually dwells.