marigold--

she says when i ask which is her

favorite tattoo, she tugs at her shirt

sleeve, reveals the flower—gold with

flecks of terracotta, burn sienna, an

outline in black covering her right

forearm, underneath delicate cursive

script—hell bent, for my cousin who

passed last year and i say i’m sorry

and she says the marigold is for 

dia de los muertos the marigold is

for mental health the marigold is

for honoring the dead and the

living and i tell her the pink roses

in the basket she’s ringing up are

for my mom, i say i’m staying with

her now, she asks for how long and

i say we came home from the hospital

yesterday and she repeats—we and

i repeat—we, and she tells me about

her dad and his recent diagnosis and

i look around and there is no one behind

me in line in a crowded store at the end

of a day, and i’m sure it’s synchronicity

or magic or some kind of miracle that

parted some red sea so we, my marigold

friend and i could see inside, and after

she puts my organic cucumber in my

bag we stand in silence and i reach

out my arms and we embrace all we

could not say right there in the

grocery store, sun pouring through

thick clouds first time today