Jimmy will pick daisies
and settle them in jars beside my bed.
He will hold my hand and read poetry out loud.
He will pretend not to see the IV lines and the bruising.
He will only cry when he thinks I am asleep.
My mother will not spend summer in her garden.
Instead she will sit by the window
shredding damp Kleenex between her fingers.
She will wash my face and brush my hair.
She will pray for me while I sleep.
Jimmy will stay by my bed,
will not go home to shave.
His whiskers will be rough
against my cheek when he kisses me.
My mother will beg me to have faith
as she straightens the hospital sheets
across the foot of my bed
and arranges Jimmy’s daisies in their jars.
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