A Body That Expands

—For Lord Lee

My sister sings Puccini in the shower. 
A fever ripped the muscle of her heart 
when she was five but now she is almost 
twenty-one and lovely. She leaves music 
open like an invitation at the 
piano in her bedroom; she can’t manage 
money and loves to examine the map 
of the world hanging on my bedroom wall. 
She studies music: she sings soprano. 
She told me, “I play the saxophone, 
but my main instrument is my body.” 
Perhaps you already knew that. I had thought
only of vocal cords, not a whole body 
that expands with air and vibrates. 
The first time you heard someone produce 
a series of expansive, varied tones 
travelling effortlessly around you, 
did it seem like a miracle or just 
the only sensible way for ears, throat, 
and lungs to work together? Pardon me 
if I seem bewildered. My sister loves 
microwave egg rolls and owns fifty pair 
of shoes. She is lovely but silly though 
she doesn’t look frail; she doesn’t know 
that I leave my room in the apartment 
we share to listen to her practicing, 
singing Puccini in the shower because 
steam makes the arias easier. 
The rhythm of her heart is thump whoosh whoosh;
her blood is never sure where it is going.