My daughter got sick and nearly died—
fall of ninth grade. She combed her hair out.
I kissed her goodbye and goodnight
every time I left, and she had no choice,
attached to grim tubes, prone, ashen.
My daughter sick and nearly dying
of embarrassment as doctors probed
the mystery and fought among themselves.
I missed her goodbyes and goodnights.
We watched an old movie from child-
hood. No game shows or reality. Fourteen.
My daughter. Sick with worry she
would die, I slept on the floor and wept.
I threw ice packs at her to stop the tremors,
Then kissed her, since I could. Goodnight
seemed insufficient. So did I. No curfew
in that moonless room without boys.
My daughter got sick. Death passed her by—
I snuck her home. We did not kiss. Goodnight.