My sister pauses long seconds now
on the phone, as if she’s gone under

to gather strength for the next sentence.
Yesterday I let silence spool out

between us—two bodies traveling
through time a continent apart.

If I call her today, I’ll fill the miles

with stories of Orcas,

how they whistle and click
into blue then listen for answers

from far away. How this reminds me
of us growing up, her the oldest,

me the youngest, a pod of sisters in between,
sound coursing through everything—

making dinner, mopping floors. I’ll tell her
the only mammals to face menopause

besides us are whales—both of us
serving as grandmothers. Oxygen hisses

in the background as I nose her
in the direction she’s going, hoping

she dreams of smooth skin in cool water,
slick bodies pushing each other toward shore.