Dylan Wagman

The leaves were ground hastily,
rolled between the medics’ gilded hands
then forced into a bubbling musket hole,
past the purple Union uniform
up against the Yank’s damp ribs
stained with shards of iron.

It must have been the marigold
that brought that cake to life,
because there was no saffron for miles
and its flesh shone like a god’s crown
with a hint of spice
that would make Annapurna

It is suspected that a marigold
slipped between her sheets,
latched on somewhere inside
her thirteen-year-old walls
and bloomed.

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