Luisa Caycedo-Kimura
Drought
Originally published in Shenandoah
Santa Rosa 2015
Originally published in RHINO
Alongside the creek, eucalyptus
trees loosen their bark,
like unraveling mummies.
Succulents in Courthouse Square
resemble Dr. Seuss characters.
I take pictures of insects
whose names I don’t know.
Egrets and herons
in swamps.
Dr. Lee wants pictures
of Hama’s chest and back.
*
Early April, the garden is parched,
like the potatoes we forgot in the oven.
We forget most everything these days.
Anniversaries, birthdays,
wine in the freezer,
Connecticut snow.
*
Hama’s angry that Joe left
her widowed, worries
when I take long on errands,
when my husband coughs.
*
At Memorial Hospital, the nurses
go on strike, as do some ER doctors.
A fill-in examines the bruises
from her latest fall.
Dr. Dreamy, we call him—
mustache groomed
wider than his bedside manner.
She’s allergic to morphine,
loves flowers, hates insects,
wheelchairs, walkers,
anything that crawls.
Did she lose consciousness?
No. Only weight.
*
I read about rainforests.
Tell my husband
embryonic tree frogs
can choose when to hatch
to avoid deadly threats.
*
Hydrations now are a few times a month.
Transfusions every three or four weeks.
She leans back in the chair,
does the Sunday crossword.
My husband and I go to a nearby bar.
*
At home, I slather cream on her torso,
so the bumps won’t itch.
She scrubs in the shower
to expunge them.
Dr. Lee recommends a new drug.
*
In post-war San Francisco
landlords peered through the windows,
told newlywed Joe and Hama
We don’t rent rooms to Japs.
*
Nighttime, early June, she and I dig
through a boxload of pictures,
like a novel we read past curfew.
The Depression in Brooklyn.
Tokyo, the war.
The house they lost
to the bombings.
Father took the burnt slats
and built us a room.
We all lived there for months.
*
A late summer morning.
Bees huddled
in a nest formation
on a pin oak branch.
Ugh! Ghastly! Hama clenches my hand.
Next morning, only a few remain
frantically flying over and around.
Days later, a dragonfly perches on a bamboo pole.
In Japan, red dragonflies are a sign of fall,
she tells me. Pats my arm.
*
When I was young, mamá told me,
moths seep from our mouths as we die.
Orange,
brown, black wings
flutter past our tongue. We sigh,
then the body is still.
I search for signs in the closet,
the backyard,
the holes in my t-shirt.
*
Hama-san, second mother,
if you’re well for your birthday,
we’ll go to the oyster house,
have Kumamotos. A dozen for each.
*
Monday morning I awaken
as the crows caw reveille.
They gather like soldiers
on a nearby tree.
Hama’s wheezing
and gurgling have stopped.
A half hour later,
we’ll hear coos
of collared doves in the yard.
