She had a bag of clementines

She was peeling one-
slow, methodic, like it hurt her.
Like the skin was someone
she'd loved once.

Her fingers trembled
in that way sorrow makes holy-
the devotion of keeping it together.

How women are taught
to cry like saints:
quiet, citrus-sweet,
and alone.

The bench was wide enough
for two.
The sun was kind.
The world, indifferent.

In another world,
I might've sat beside her,
offered a tissue
or a scripture.

But in this one,
we make churches of avoidance.
We pray by not interfering.

Her eyes-
black galaxies
rimmed in salt-
met mine
for a moment too long.

And I swear
the universe
cleared its throat.