The Road Past Cartago

I drove to Irazu Volcano two weeks
after being split open and threaded
back together. The lurching station
wagon barely made it up the curling
road. Villagers hung their fresh
laundry in the fields, stained underwear
and baby bibs slapping in the breeze
among the smell of morning
gallo pinto and cow manure.
At the highest point,
I parked the choking
car and walked towards the crater,
ash and sand crawling
between my toes, stitches pulling tight
in my stomach. There are no guards
en paraiso, no insurmountable fences,
no signs telling you no.
Ducking under the broken
wooden gate, I witnessed the abyss
below. Sulfur makes Diego de la Haya
turquoise as a cartoon and I
crouched down like a child,
pressed my palm hard into the heat
of a wound that blossomed
as effortlessly as a Guaria Morada,
as beautifully as the last eruption,
and wished you were there.