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.