On the way to Cochabamba,
and just as the heat
from the white sun overhead
began to burn
through the silk scarf
you gave me to cover
my bare thighs,
we pulled off the main road
to eat the papaya
I bought for us
the day before.
“Cada pequeña semilla es un deseo,” you said
and held up, between forefinger and bruised thumb,
one glistening dark seed for me to consider.
“Do you mean that each little seed is a priori a wish granted?” I asked.
“¿Qué significa a priori, cariña?” you wanted to know, and laughed.
Later, when we awoke from our naps
and a late afternoon breeze tousled
the dark curls that had fallen so sweetly
across your forehead,
I leaned over to kiss
and to whisper,
“What if we just stay here?”