QUIOTE

FROM THE CENTER of the maguey blooms
an enormous quiote, up to
ten meters tall.
The plant flowers—fully mature—
and takes
between seven and ten years to grow.
You explained all this to me that evening
while I listened, spellbound.
In my mouth, I imagined the honey water
you spoke so much about, spilling.
You told me that the maguey
flowers only once in its lifetime.
After that, it dies.
You wanted me to learn to recognize
a maguey from a distance,
its flower rising like a signal
of encounter or welcome.
“This is going to hurt,” I told you,
“when we’re no longer together.”
The years passed; we scraped off
all the honey from each other
until nothing was left.
One day, I was traveling down the road.
In the distance, I saw a quiote,
then another, and another, and another
the maguey flowers multiplying
and I remembered you, as expected.
The plants stayed behind,
the sap that took
so many years to form
also stayed behind.
And that sentence,
to love only once in a lifetime,
returned to me like a latent thought, ready to be cut at the root.
From the center of the maguey,
your name sprouted.
I recognized it from afar,
and it was no longer a sign of encounter,
but merely one of farewell.