portion of the artwork for Luisa Caycedo-Kimura's poetry

Luisa Caycedo-Kimura

There’s something about a newly
sharpened knife
that helps her breathe.

It glistens like a dragonfly
on sequined water.

In the mirror, her father
glares at her.
She wonders how to trim

away the broadness
of his cheekbones
from her face.

The knife she found that August
by the river
chatters incessantly. She keeps it
in the closet under blankets.
On empty nights,
she listens for its breath.

There’s a cave inside a cave
that leads to a welcomed well
of silence.
The taste of clouds after rain.

She runs the blade below her ear,
down her neck.

The moon is barefoot in the yard.
The crisp cry of the grass
brushes her toes, her heels.

Black stones. Black twigs. Black
spears of grass. Warm blood.
Dew for a thirsty morning.

The roughness of his hand
against the inside of her thigh.
Mud caked around her shins.

A frog slides from her hands.
His tongue
against her lips.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 45 | Spring 2015