For my lovely sister-in-law, the late Cathy M. Fisher
Pigeons are seated in pews
on sunny clay rooftops.
Humans, sweatshirts over pajamas,
salivate over warm sourdough treats.
Jazzy sounds on the radio sing home —
moods dampened by her white blood cell increase.
You can hear the ocean.
You can smell the yeast.
The universe pulses in Sunday morning beats.
The northern California pool glistens
as we glide through water in the October breeze.
Metered inhalations, bubbled exhalations
like stop lights changing hues on Embarcadero streets.
My arms, muscles, lungs propel without planning.
With silent purpose, nostrils and capillaries in sync.
She has felt coastal tremors, raised babies, advised
her clients in these hills, among favorite foods and friends.
In her hospital room now, she sleeps, attempts to eat.
A somatic war rages, mortality advances, retreats, defeats.
The Bay Area still pulses, so much more bittersweet.
As first published in Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Issue 28, July-August 2022