Daylight, 2 a.m.
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.