Aaron and I have been sleeping or trying to in separate twin beds in his childhood room for months We hide wine red and white between my bed and the wall Hama-san does not like us drinking We wake up before six to hear the last rattles of her breath Great egrets squawk on their way from the treetops to the drying creek Soon there will be nothing in Hama-san’s bed but the eighty-pound shell of her body Before noon the hospice nurse will bathe comb and dress her Mortuary men will place her in a zippered bag Tonight we will not help her to the bathroom The lumps on her torso will not itch
Luisa Caycedo-Kimura is a Colombian-born writer, translator, and educator. Her honors include a John K. Walsh Residency Fellowship at the Anderson Center, an Adrienne Reiner Hochstadt Fellowship at Ragdale, and a Robert Pinsky Global Fellowship in Poetry. Her work has also been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. Luisa’s poems appear or are forthcoming in the Cincinnati Review, Sunken Garden Poetry 1992-2011, RHINO, Diode Poetry Journal, Mid-American Review, Nashville Review, the Night Heron Barks, and elsewhere.