late march and twenty degrees, yet the tropics
breathe beneath this glass breast. our son enjoys
our microvacation: fuchsia blooms, the koi
speckled and catlike. i’m slower, myopic,
squinting at signs: the purple bougainvillea
is hardy and quickly becomes invasive.
ah, yes. another little pervasive
reminder: her cancer is like godzilla.
but i most admire the saguaro cacti,
how they find tenderness terrifying.
they harden with the desert’s penury;
their needled refusals are formal as black-tie
affairs where the most dangerous act is crying.
the oldest will not cry for centuries.