Windstorm
Luisa Caycedo-Kimura

In Colombia, we could feel the soursop
drop, heavy bodied, like wet towels,
against roots or soil. Skin opened
to expose dark seeds, white pulp.

—

Carla tells me she can’t sleep. A twig leg
hangs from the nightlight where she saw
one roach swallow another. With her eyes closed,
she sees them molt
and in their crystal state crawl on her bed.

—

In 1947, twenty-three-year old Evelyn “The Most Beautiful
Suicide” landed on a limo, as if stretched on a bed, fingers
still tinkering with her pearls. “Tell my father, I have too many
of my mother’s tendencies,“ her note said.

—

Years later, a wind gust pushed Elvita
onto the 85th floor, after jumping
from the 86th. She landed with just a broken hip.

—

When I found out mother had died, I was waiting for a flight
to her. Her mind shut, lungs stopped. She was alone.

—

What do people look like, when they hit the ground?

—

The first suicide off the Empire State Building
was a laid off employee. He jumped into an empty
shaft before the building was complete,
before there were ticket booths or cameras.

—

No gust of wind, no fence, no netting on the flight
to Sonoma. Apples against the roof of my father-in-law’s house,
others on the pebbled garden. Only one or two
will make it to the kitchen.

—

Aaron sits shoulder strong folding wings.
We drink local wine in his father’s room.
A fine California red, that tastes
like my mother’s death.

His father takes small sips from an oxygen tank.

I climb stairs for no reason.

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