You don't drink it, I said. You kiss it.
My tía taught me that in Matatlán when I was nineteen,
in a courtyard like this one, rain on the tiles like this,
and I've never told anyone else
because I was waiting for someone
who'd do it wrong first.
You did it wrong. You threw it back like tequila.
You coughed. The bougainvillea laughed at you.
I laughed at you. You were beautiful, coughing.
So: again. The little clay cup. Smell it first.
Smoke, yes — the agave roasted underground for days,
the earth still in it.
Now just touch it to your lip. Don't drink. Touch.
Let it burn a little there, at the edge.
That's it. Now a sip so small it's almost nothing.
Hold it on your tongue. Wait.
Wait for it to open.
I watched your face while it opened.
That was the whole point. I wanted to see
what you look like
when something you didn't expect
goes all the way through you.
Orange slice, worm salt, the red one.
Lick it from my wrist, I said, which was not
in my tía's instructions,
and you did, very carefully, as if it were a test,
and then you didn't stop at the wrist,
which was not in anyone's instructions at all.
The rain came down harder. The string lights swung.
Inside, the bed was turned down with a red cloth,
and the door was open,
and the rest of the bottle
could wait. It's been waiting for years
in the dark under the earth.
It's good at it.
We weren't.
