Aaron Caycedo-Kimura

Aaron Caycedo-Kimura is a writer and visual artist. He is the author of two poetry collections: Ubasute, which won the 2020 Slapering Hol Press Chapbook Competition, and the full-length collection Common Grace, forthcoming from Beacon Press in Fall 2022. His honors include a Robert Pinsky Global Fellowship in Poetry, a St. Botolph Club Foundation Emerging Artist Award in Literature, and nominations for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets anthologies. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal, RHINO, upstreet, DMQ Review, Poet Lore, The Night Heron Barks, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. Aaron earned his MFA in creative writing from Boston University and is also the author and illustrator of Text, Don’t Call: An Illustrated Guide to the Introverted Life (TarcherPerigee, 2017).

Wild 

I call Nick at Jones Cleaning to rake out our second-story gutters. Among the muck of leaves, twigs, soil, and weeds, he finds—of all things—a T-bone. I imagine a bear must have toppled over my neighbor’s garbage—we keep ours in the garage—ripped open a white plastic trash bag, picnicked on whatever he could nibble or lick. A falcon—owl? raven?—came along and flew the bone up to our roof. After picking it clean, he let it slide down the peak into the gutter. All very plausible. Though I still wonder about the cracked acorns I found in the basement—stuffed in the condensate pump, as if someone were hiding evidence.

Supercuts

Fully vaccinated, I get my hair cut for the first time in fourteen months—a celebration of sorts. With a #7 clipper guard, Robyn shaves my shoulder-length gray to the floor. Any problems with people not wearing masks? I ask. After a year of isolation, even I’m up for some small talk. Most don’t give us a hard time, she says. Some roll their eyes, but put one on anyway. Switching to scissors, she says, There’s been a few who’ve ranted that Covid’s a hoax. Robyn had two uncles die from the virus but doesn’t have the energy to argue. She just cuts their hair, clips off snippets of a bewildering year. After wiping my forehead and neck with a white towel, she squeezes a dab of finishing cream on her palm, rubs her gloveless hands together, combs her fingers through my hair.

Mahjong

Dad puckers his lips, blows out a tuneless rhythm, picks a tile from the wall. Holding it up to his reading glasses, he whispers the number and suit. Say that again? Mom says, eyebrows up. We all laugh. Whenever Luisa and I get together with my parents, we break out the set—the one Mom bought me in Chinatown, fishbone tiles dove-tailed with bamboo. When Luisa discards, Mom grabs from the wall before Dad can pong. Did you want that? She flicks her chin toward the pile. When we shuffle, he stops early to build his wall. She swooshes a wave of tiles toward him, knocking it down. C’mon, mix it more! When he rebuilds, it’s a precarious row of crooked teeth. And yet, like an east wind blowing soft and steady, he continues his winning streak, receives double as boss.