Stray cats in the attic,
the high bridge
we jumped from
into the river of frogs
and water moccasin.
We no longer ask
if she imagines
our childhood home—
no longer probe
about a life spent together.
Our mother nursed us
seventeen months apart.
We shared a room,
camped in Mexico,
launched a boat to Sardinia.
Witnessed the births
of each of our children.
I am not sure when
we first noticed her memory
migrating away.
Now I could say
maybe that wasn’t betrayal
but plaques and tangles.
When did she neglect
to turn off the stove?
Bake a cake without flour
and eggs? Lose the way home,
a block from her lane?
Sister, you no longer retain
a history of us, remember less
and less, but the more you forget
the further back I reminisce.
Sleeping together.
Talking too late.
Dancing into oblivion.
Swimming in the lake.
Sometimes you need a sister like a drink of water.
Sometimes you feel you are dying of thirst.
