Forage
by Luisa Caycedo-Kimura
I turn clay soil, mound rocks,
squeeze grubs with my fingers.
My spade, the soil, a rasp.
A dry northeast heat wave.
When I was five, Mamá chopped
my hair. Niña salvaje, wild child,
always in a tangle. Holes in your jeans,
grass stains on your sweaters.
Through my hair, wind, dust, twigs.
Impatient bumblebees,
you know we’ll have flowers.
I pull quack grass,
plant deep-rooted cowpeas, mustard,
crimson clover.
Watch for the stealth
of a screech owl in flight.
Write a letter
to my dead mamá.
How does one awaken
this conflicted land?
Last night— a black bear
in the neighbor’s pool.
Last night, I almost held berries
for it in my hands.
Copyright 2019 Luisa Caycedo-Kimura
From All Were Limones (The Word Works, 2025); originally published in The Cincinnati Review, Volume 16.2, 2019.
Used by permission of the author.