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Two poems by Candice Kelsey

Candice Kelsey

in the garden / credit: de
in the garden / credit: de

like a collapsed lung

A poem walks into a pandemic
and starts tearing up its lines
to make medical grade masks
tossing its punctuation
tiny prayers

darkening the emptiness
between its stanzas
with the names of the dead
until only its title remains
like a collapsed lung.

Into the Coyote, or Ballad for Families Renting in Los Angeles

Realtors leave their business cards
at our front door
salivating at the sales potential
of the little house we rent
reminding us daily that we are not permanent
             that we don’t belong
             that we are being circled and watched
             that we are carrion
and they are always perched

Like the drone my son flew into our neighbor’s tree
across the street the elderly lady she
can’t help but ask
when will the owners sell
when will they tear your house down or remodel
what she really wants to know
             is when will we be gone
             when can she visit with a real family
                          who owns and doesn’t
wonder each day
when will the owners sell
when will they tear down or remodel

I ask when will my kids have to lose
             another sacred thing
             another growth chart height mark
                          penciled on a wall that isn’t theirs in the end
that needs to be updated
to get more rent to improve the home value
on the street for the neighbors
inquiring when will they

Our cats laze on the porch
             they drink the sun wherever it will have them
             they eat the neighbors’ paper plate kibble
                          on the stoop next door
that husband and wife alone
with each other in seven bedrooms
overlooking our one story
stucco mid-century modern with chain link fence

Our daughter sunning herself
on the tar-patch roof
beside rusted gutters catapulting her body
a trampoline landing
soft and resilient like we always are
             when we leave another home
             when we have to say goodbye
                          to a street our dogs’ feet know by heart
             when we have to say
                          why bother letting this one know
                          or that one learn
that we are leaving and won’t
be part of their morning routine
their Halloween hellos

Let them scavenge the house:
take the brass ceiling fans scrape the plaster of Paris
save the bay windows for another project
let them laze on their porches
             and walk the length of our gutters with fierce-fang eyes
             and imagine the growth of their equity
marked up the side
of a kitchen door jamb with different colored pencils
dollar signs instead of inches

Let them howl
under the jacaranda and feel satisfied
while we move to a new street whose coyotes are waiting
even still to feed upon the feline flesh
             we have no idea is food
             we have no way of knowing will soon be rendered
                          hair / whisker // tooth

We grow too old to mark the walls
meet the neighbors or wrap our shoulders in sunset small talk
no way of knowing
that days are numbered even now
by the grey tufted struts of coyotes waiting
silent viscounts ruling this new place
where we hang pictures activate WiFi and reassemble bunk beds
             this yard that offers rose globemallow
                          and Thanksgiving cactus
             this yard like a welcome song
while gruesome death is holding a pencil
ready to mark our time behind the coastal cholla

Tonight I crawl into a coyote
beneath its sheets of flesh and search for my cats

I shine my flashlight cellphone
I Jonah deeper into its Thai-cave belly pulling out this neighbor
             and that neighbor from 3004
             and splinters of wood frame specks of plaster from 436
             and lizard tile clapboard drawer pulls from 6910
until I see the reflection of my city
in the gore-lick of my hands the image of a forgotten saint
this retablo beast
that has swallowed so much of us

             I wade myself out wet and worn
to my daughter’s voice – you’re wearing a hood a red hood
the blood riding red over the cul-de-sacs
of my neck like I’ve been born a coyote’s gross howl
a birth of dismembered syllables

             I become grandmother’s house
its wolf-windows so big the better to watch us with
as we try to live here.

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Candice Kelsey

Candice Kelsey's debut book of poetry Still I Am Pushing just released with Finishing Line Press. Her poetry has appeared in Poets Reading the News, Poet Lore, and others while her micro-chapbook The Pier House was recently released by the Origami Poems Project. She won the 2019 Two Sisters Writing's Steve Carr Contest, received Honorable Mention for Common Ground's 2019 Poetry Contest, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Currently, she is working with the O, Miami Poetry Festival on an exciting project. An educator in Los Angeles for 21 years, she is devoted to working with young writers.

Author: Candice Kelsey Tags: poetry Category: Poetry May 1, 2020

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Empty Mirror

Established in 2000 and edited by Denise Enck, Empty Mirror is an online literary magazine that publishes new work each Friday.

Each week EM features several poems each by one or two poets; reviews; critical essays; visual art; and personal essays.

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