by Luisa Caycedo-Kimura<\/p>\n
I turn clay soil, mound rocks,
\nsqueeze\u00a0grubs with my fingers.
\nMy\u00a0spade, the soil, a rasp.
\nA dry northeast heat wave.<\/p>\n
When I was five, Mam\u00e1 chopped
\nmy\u00a0hair.\u00a0Ni\u00f1a\u00a0salvaje, wild child,
\nalways in a tangle. Holes in your jeans,
\ngrass\u00a0stains on your sweaters.<\/p>\n
Through my hair, wind, dust, twigs.<\/p>\n
Impatient bumblebees,
\nyou\u00a0know\u00a0we\u2019ll\u00a0have flowers.<\/p>\n
I pull quack grass,
\nplant deep-rooted cowpeas, mustard,
\ncrimson clover.<\/p>\n
Watch for the stealth
\nof a screech owl in flight.<\/p>\n
Write a\u00a0letter
\nto\u00a0my dead\u00a0mam\u00e1.<\/p>\n
How does one awaken
\nthis conflicted\u00a0land?<\/p>\n
Last night\u2014 a black bear
\nin the neighbor\u2019s pool.
\nLast night, I almost held berries
\nfor it in my hands.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Copyright 2019 Luisa Caycedo-Kimura<\/em><\/p>\n From <\/em>All Were Limones (The Word Works, 2025); originally published in <\/em>The Cincinnati Review, Volume 16.2, 2019.<\/em><\/p>\n Forage by Luisa Caycedo-Kimura I turn clay soil, mound rocks, squeeze\u00a0grubs with my fingers. My\u00a0spade, the soil, a rasp. A dry northeast heat wave. When I was five, Mam\u00e1 chopped my\u00a0hair.\u00a0Ni\u00f1a\u00a0salvaje, wild child, always in a tangle. Holes in your jeans, grass\u00a0stains on your sweaters. Through my hair, wind, dust, twigs. Impatient bumblebees, you\u00a0know\u00a0we\u2019ll\u00a0have flowers. … Continue reading Forage<\/span> Used by permission of the author.<\/pre>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"