by Terrie Leigh Relf

Marguerite had chosen to name her daughter Marigold, because the flowers always made her smile.

That alone should have been an omen.

As Marguerite took her last breath in near symphony with her daughter’s first, they held each other’s gaze while the midwife sliced the cord.

That could have been the second.

The third?

As the wet nurse rocked Marigold on the front porch, her newborn eyes searched the luminous night before finally resting upon the Pleiades. She stretched out her tiny hands, opened her mouth as if to yawn, then one-by-one, she called down and swallowed all the stars.


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