Daylight, 2 a.m.

Poem by Richard Sime

I’m swaddling a corn muffin in plastic

when I hear myself say “Honey, I just

love the daylights out of you,” one more ray

of my mother and even though she’d say

I don’t talk that way, it’s how I hear her,

how we live for each other, her mother

patting a lock of hair in place though she

didn’t need to, Mom would say, “So pretty,”

as I pictured them on the farmhouse porch

perched on a lift in the prairie’s long stretch

to the mountains two states away, daylight

beaming through her mother’s hair, oh my sweet

honey bellied up on my lap, paw limp

in my hand while we all drape off in sleep.