The Scrub Jay
It was loud, almost a crack,
like a shot—not a gunshot
but a shot-put shot dropped
on a stage. My mother’s forehead
hitting the bathroom floor.
Can I finish going to the bathroom?
Mom said as the EMTs
backed out into the bedroom.
You need to use your walker
from now on, the ER doctor said,
treating the plum on her forehead.
He didn’t inspect the red lesions
under her shirt, cancer showing
who was winning. He didn’t hear
that bang. The one you can’t
unhear and dread hearing again,
like when she tells you she’s going
to take a shower. Years before,
I heard a crack like that
against the back of the house—
a body hurled against the siding.
From the window, I saw
a scrub jay standing over
a small black bird, single-pecking it
every couple of seconds.
A faint peep each time
the jay’s beak stabbed.
I went outside to find
the black bird in the dirt,
a scatter of oily feathers,
a head barely attached.
Aaron Caycedo-Kimura is the author of Common Grace (Beacon Press, 2022) and Ubasute (Slapering Hol Press, 2021). His honors include a MacDowell Fellowship, 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 work has appeared or is forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal, Plume Poetry, Poetry Daily, RHINO, Pirene’s Fountain, Salamander, Cave Wall, Shenandoah, and elsewhere. Aaron earned his MFA in creative writing from Boston University.
