Aruba
        
Cactus. Cactus?
Water so blue it makes your teeth hurt.
We are too far south for hurricanes
whose names in Spanish accents
roll off the tongue like spiraling winds,
an incantation for rain. Our bones know

this reef we are ringed in
may as well be holding back lava—
lapis lazuli swirled and molten.
There is not enough water
for drinking here. Desalinized ice
crushed into the mango daiquiris.
Coconut palms easing taproots
down, blind as sandy tongues.

We climb an ancient monolith of rock
with other tourists and iguanas,
our hands sweeping the bare etchings
of lovers, nothing humid left to the touch.
Divi divi trees on the horizon
small and bent as potted bonsais.

In the corner of a Catholic chapel,
a rosary with beads like nutmeg shells
hangs on a blue wall. Each prayer lit
on the altar below— a tiny flag rippling
between wick and psalm of arid wind.