The child in the next bed has the biggest eyes I have ever seen.
Liquid and dark, he has a smile that brightens them beautifully.
Inside his small body lies the heart of a lion, the soul of an angel.
Almost all has been taken from him, yet his first thought is to give,
give his precious toy to me, and I am humbled.
Little creatures run and jump, on the screen, I have no idea of this;
it is a child’s game. He leans across his bed, making me understand.
My failures at this game make him laugh, so I try to fail some more.
I am introduced to his mother like an old friend; she wears her hurt
more casually now, he is going to stay with her after all.
The child in the next bed is called Luis; he is sunshine in miniature,
scarred by a car and his intent following of his football.
He tells me, when it is dark, and he is afraid of wolves and monsters
that if we pushed our beds closer together, we could make them go away.
I want to hold him, but we are both chained to machines that do not understand.
He asks me, quietly, as the moths fly disoriented without light,
“Are you still there?” And I ask of him the same, when I know he is asleep.
Such a big bed for a little one, I tell him to curl up small,
and the monsters will not see him; I will frighten them away.
The child in the next bed has an innocence that frightens me,
with only a mother for visitor, a mother worn and full of love.
I wonder at his life ahead, think of the years before him.
Wonder if he will ever remember our hands held at midnight,
a midnight full of monsters, most of them our own creation.