When she returned from the hospital
Mum asked you to clean out her closet
cowboy boots, piles of craft paper
oversized sweats, and the paisley dress
she hasn’t worn for years but saved
just in case she needed it tomorrow
or the day after, or next summer
when dandelion seeds loiter sidewalks
daylight trespasses evening hours
television networks yawn with reruns.
You didn’t ask the doctor about summer.
Sahar Romani is a poet and educator. She lives in Brooklyn.