Aurea in Orocovis, 1962
She’s framed in the swale
of the hills
behind her, while the wind’s hands
sweep her hair, thrumming
Nostrils wide like she must have inhaled
sour fumes, eyes near closed, her copper skin
in a torrent sun. They say I look
like her now as she did then, but I don’t
know the woman
tucked between valleys, I only know Abuela
singing to me as I lay on her lap
sana, sana, colita
de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana.
Kaitlinn Rose is a writer and editor in New York City, where she currently resides. She recently completed her MFA from Columbia University concentrating in poetry and cross genre writing. Her poetry focuses on drug addiction and recovery, on which she also presented during her TEDx Talk in March 2017 on Long Island, NY.