Cross-legged, we sat on the lawn
of your ward —
the daisy chain around my wrist,         
a gift   
you’d wound like a friendship band       
or handfasting,
as if daisies would somehow   
do the healing.
And with such tenderness        
you’d tied the stems,
saying forever (knowing not ever           
we’d be here again).
Smelling of bed linen and kindness,
you changed ovarian           
into something egg-like,
while tumour became satsuma,
a thing we could laugh at —
like the briefly believed
ectopic pregnancy.
You even flashed the ultrasound
as if proud of that twelve-
centimetre mass, and made it your art.
At some point we spoke of fertility,
or perhaps not —
dandelion clocks
forget-me-nots,
your buttercup lifting my chin?
Codeine flowing under your paleness.
And behind your smile  
the scalpel that slit you
in search of a neoplasm,
and mourning the child
we’d never have.
And the sun bouncing on your lap —
as if betraying us
with its promise, its promise of new life.