A bouquet of squash blossoms will disappear by lunch, their orange flowers pinched from the green, minced into quesadillas and eggs.


The fifteen-year-old poses, hands full of marigolds and carnations, chrysanthemums that echo the pattern of her dress, a bright textile from Oaxaca’s coast. Tonight, she will receive her first bouquet of roses, will dance with her father. Will dance as if she is still his little girl.


Even aphids could not deter my own father from deadheading the roses to devour them stop iceberg lettuce. Alarmed, sister and I worried about insects and poisons.

He tasted good dirt, the right mix of shade and desert sun.


The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers. ~Basho

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