Aurea in Orocovis, 1962


She’s framed in the swale

of the hills

behind her, while the wind’s hands


sweep her hair, thrumming

each strand.

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.

sand hills

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.