Later she'll remember she forgot to pick the tiger lilies from the marsh where they'd swatted August mosquitoes--positioned in love. His grave wasn't going anywhere. This holds her through another anniversary and the growing that follows. Soon the tigers lick gravel. Yesterday, a farmer's dog sneezed against the strength of their pestles. Up, up orange into gray green lands.

About the author:

Jennifer Wright lives and teaches in Pittsburgh, PA. Her writing has appeared in various print and electronic journals.