At the Supermarket for the Bereaved

there is an open box of Kleenex
at the end of every aisle.

No one questions why you weep inconsolably
before the Cinnamon Toast Crunch,

why you stand still and silent,
staring at the little Jell-O cups,
remembering.

At the Supermarket for the Bereaved

there are blank journals
attached to each cart.

On the pages, black and blue
with ink and tears,
you can write
“he loved salted butter”
or
“I made him Ovaltine shakes when his jaw was broken”
or
“i miss i miss i miss him
with all my heart”

just underneath where someone else wrote
“I always brought her Oreos for a treat”
and
“Every normal act is not normal
anymore.”

In the Supermarket for the Bereaved

there are angels at the check-out.

They add everything up,
golden light
radiating from their brows,
promising some kind of grace
somewhere.

‘Fear Not,’ they murmur.

They handle your food
as if it is sacred.

When they give you change,
their cool fingers
brush your palm,

and for a blessed instant
hold your grief as their own.

At the exit, there are candles to light
and places to leave things:
a can of mini-raviolis,
a strawberry,
blue corn
chips.