Palo Santo in September
In Mendoza, girls littered their gardens with used firework casings. Lavender and orange rinds they burned as incense, the ashes mounded in fire pits. Dishes with blue flowers dashed with fish heads— scalloped edges rusted where the blade broke the necks. Love was a forest fire burning in the back of a bus, the promise of cut flowers and bread in the fridge, a bicycle behind the door. In the stirrup of a saddle, the strap of my sandal snapped. Afterwards, we drank pitchers of wine, and thumbs flicking walked barefoot the whole way home.