(for sister Kim)

July bakes the street.
We have to wait
until 4 a. m.
for this heat
to dissolve into dawn
so sleep can come.

You appeared
above the island
where bad water defines boundaries,
where hard lines
are everywhere.

I waited for you
in the street,
looking up
at the hospital window.
You were squirming,
pale and restless
under a perfect blanket
left by a well wisher.
And the street burned.

It's 1951.
Stevenson is fading in the polls.
The Dodgers,
taken from behind,
collapse in the stretch.
There is big trouble
on the 38th parallel
but someone comes flying
out of smoke and rubble
in a stolen MIG-15.

It's you in the cockpit,
fumbling with landing gear.
A 3-point landing
over bad water,
a narrow runway,
rubber squealing.
You,
slipping
through a seam
in the sky.