for P.C.
My friend grieves while we search
for an authentic experience, like tacos
in hand-made corn tortillas. On Zarzamora,
Letitia’s is busy, so it must be good and real.
Early April—Lent specials in cursive
on posters outside. We park near
an unexpected cluster of purple flowers,
short and wild like a sudden storm.
We kneel. I think of Anthony of Padua,
the patron saint of lost things. Both of us
draw closer. The flowers speak to us. They say—
existence and persistence are the same thing.
A brisk spring wind brings sweet
peppers and onions, oil and fish.
Copyright © 2026 by Michael Kleber-Diggs. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 12, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
