Green Ink

A woman coughed in the produce aisle today,

a dry, rhythmic sound that pulled me back

to a room with linoleum floors and the smell of chalk.

I haven't seen Mrs. Gable since the tenth grade,

but I saw a green felt-tip pen at the bottom

of a stranger's mesh bag and felt my face get hot.

She used to bleed green ink across my margins,

writing things like 'What do you mean by this?'

and 'Don't be afraid to be specific.'

I stood there by the apples, paralyzed,

realizing I’m still trying to answer her

in everything I say to people who aren't even listening.