Dying Child
by Lynda Williams

She's bored of bed.
I leave my gift,
awkward in the face
of naughtiness
which proves her
childhood.

She is five.

We picnic on the lawn
outside the hospital.

Her mother tries
to talk of "cancer germies"
while she wriggles
asking, "When can we go home?
Now?"

She eats french fries.

In her bed,
she hardly looks sick.

She will never be six.