Dia de Muertos
by Nina Bennett

I coax marigolds from seed, place them on the hearth
beneath the picture of my infant granddaughter.
A sugar skull rests in front of the photograph. Her name,
Maddy, etched in fuschia icing. Bowls of nuts and fruits
on either side, anything to beckon los angelitos.
My ofrenda has a cocoa-colored teddy bear,
folded receiving blanket, two dragonfly fetishes.
Sandalwood incense permeates the living room,
reminds me of my teenage bedroom. I leave a lamp
on so my granddaughter can find her way when the gates
of heaven open at midnight. The dim glow casts a shadow
along the hallway, like the trail of pixie dust that follows Tinkerbell.

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