Chance

That my sister was born
with a mumuring heart
but I was not. That
it whispered deep inside her
sshh, sshh, sshh with every beat
until one night a valve stopped,
small dam that finally failed.

That a surgeon cracked her breast open
like an egg, her heart the vital yolk
he probed and patched for hours,
its finger-sized hole. That later
we both cried when she showed me
the line of ragged, bluish stitches.

That love comes to any of us
even when we are unmindful.
That the miracle is we breathe in,
breathe out, arms and bodies
opening, closing around each other,
answering yes and yes.