My mother’s womb

the playhouse 

born of my father’s hands

laundry chute 

and linen closet

back seat of a Corolla

that tiny studio 

Chicago.

A boy’s heart.

 

I climb into these 

spaces frantic

a wild boar hunted

trembling. 

I sniff

get comfortable –

 

I climb into 

these poems 

whose words linger 

like lint

from a motel-quilt 

sky. Yet

 

always 

there’s pleasure

settling my body 

home 

where I can 

pull the curtains

burn incense

and fill 

pages

like bodies do coffins.

---

CANDICE KELSEY‘s work has appeared in such journals as Poet Lore, The Cortland Review, and North Dakota Quarterly. She was a finalist for Poetry Quarterly’s Rebecca Lard Award and was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her first full-length manuscript is forthcoming with Finishing Line Press. An educator of 20 years’ standing, she lives in Los Angeles with her husband and three children.