He reminds me of May
with a laugh that chirps and breathes
with new life.
I look into his eyes, glowing azaleas, as
he talks
and try
not to think
about how his bare head, a lone, soft bulb
that belongs in black soil, sweet and alive
will return there
before May
even begins.

He tells me he wants to go outside and
catch fireflies, glowing summer wind
like we did only five months prior.
No, I tell him, it kills me
that I cannot give that to him
and I cannot give him the rest of his life
and that I must leave him here.
He does not belong here.
He will not live to blow out 7 waxy candles
on a heavily frosted cake, in May, because
they have trapped him in a cage of square, soulless meals and
starched white sheets
and the chemical, liquid life they've tapped into his veins.

I give him a white daffodil. It is
not much, but
at least it is a slice of his birth month,
his favorite month.
The one where he belongs.
I'd give it to him, if I could; I'd
give to him
every delicious day
and every blooming morning glory vine.
I open the window
and let him smell October because
it is the best
I can do.