Candice M. Kelsey

Three Poems – Candice M. Kelsey

Daddy, I’m Fine

after Sinéad O’Connor

I have not done me

well

you found the ipecac

I was a picture torn

not your little girl

locked in early morning shame Jesus

Mary Joseph’s inside-out girl

with my hair tied back and my gray

cotton sweats

hands hungry for yours to squeeze

three times I Love You

during Mass

No I didn’t do me

well

family therapy at the EDU

I wanted you

to know I could

not do

anymore Daddy

you were bounce a quarter on my bed

I was loose unmade

sleeves inverted

neck holes wide pants legs

twisted sock

caught

lint trap felt skirt too short

in Velcro call to boys

with my hair tied back and my gray

cotton sweats

hands hungry for yours to squeeze

three times I Love You

during Mass

frenetic you

tried to fold

unmatched corners—too

sensitive

I was a picture torn

not your little girl

Daddy my monarch my king

I believed you

wanted me numb neat

running to jump into your arms

at 5:00 arrivals home

but I was too

useless unlocked

right-side-out girl

with my hair tied back and my gray

cotton sweats

hands hungry for yours to squeeze

three times I Love You

during Mass

Daddy I’m Fine Daddy

Jesus

I loved you

 

On Being Encouraged to Take that Love Language Quiz, I Pass Knowing

mine are the opposite of media

profiting from images of children

collapsed in Palestinian grief

for the 2024 World Press Photo Prize;

 

none of my love languages

include the Associated Press photograph

of a woman’s broken body

hurled across the bed of a Hamas truck;

 

I cannot comprehend the words

of an NFL kicker to female graduates

claiming life begins at motherhood and

ends at dangerous gender ideologies;

 

I refuse to translate excuses

from a former lover who rejected

the likes of me for fear his aging mother

might be embarrassed at church.

 

Who could understand the tongue

of husband and me—lacking affirmation,

acts of service, gifts, and quality time,

loveless worlds so out of touch?

 

No More

I fucking hate seeing Larry Bird doing a commercial for insurance, making a fool of himself swinging some racket at that creepy guy in the mayhem All-State spots.

The hick from French lick is arguably the best basketball player of all time. But millions of people will watch his legs drip down from the phony attic set like a desperate clown begging for tips at a backwoods birthday party.

I fucking hate seeing Elton John doing a commercial for Uber Eats. Lil Nas X or not. He’s riding a toy rocket and excited about Japanese sushi with a jiggly cheesecake.

Reduced to a red and purple sweatsuit needing a spare pound and yet five Grammys, two Academy Awards, two Golden Globes, and a Tony. This glam rock god will be remembered for straddling a coin-operated kiddie ride in front of a masonry-style fireplace.

I fucking hate seeing my ex sleeping on the floor of our walk-in closet, blurring the boundaries with a feral mother cat nursing her five newborn kittens.

Give this man a gym and a field — the sky’s the limit. Before losing his job, he guided every team he ever coached into the incredibly competitive CIF basketball playoffs. Now our bedroom curls into defeat with fetal intensity only an empire, or a marriage, can know.

 

Candice M. Kelsey is a poet, essayist, and educator living in both Los Angeles and Georgia. A finalist for a Best Microfiction 2023, she is the author of seven books; her latest chapbook POSTCARDS from the MASTHEAD has just been released with boats against the current. She mentors an incarcerated writer through PEN America and reads for The Los Angeles Review. Please find her at https://www.candicemkelseypoet.com/.