by Candice M. Kelsey

for Izzy

when you are ready
come back to the wheel
where I’ll be sitting straight-backed
hips slightly higher than my knees

my hands wake empty
each morning to recreate you
from a stubborn hope
that what hardens
might soften

how fire can be mercy

I cannot live in that old house
cannot unmake divorce
because fractures follow the grain

you think I chose distance
but clay does not leave
it becomes the vessel

once your English homework
was spread across the kitchen table
tiny voice reading out loud
mine scoring with yours
two instruments slipping into key

I fly home every five weeks
arms full of mashed potatoes and apologies
South Bay wind in my mouth
4th Street opening at our old beach

how I miss being the kiln
that formed you
now I commute across the country
trying to fire a life

then I could feel every turn
and know you were safe

I carried you heavy and lucky
holy in my hips
your weight tilting my gait
hiccups fluttering under my palm

when you were clay inside me
warm and tidal
your heel a small rebellion
against my ribs

so I shape the air

but have no access
to the wheel of you
my texts dry in midday sun
voicemails fissure
under the waning crescent

your anger is wet clay
slapped hard on the wheel
spinning spinning
let me cup it please
center it
make something that holds us

you are seventeen

as if reasons are also earth and fear
as if some houses
don’t split along their beams
no matter how gently we brace

you say I left
say I gave up on the family
palms full of your silence
when my name lights your phone

Candice M. Kelsey (she/her) is a Los Angeles writer and educator who has received Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations. Her work appears in Bust, The Rumpus, Painted Bride Quarterly, Poet Lore, SWWIM, and other journals. A reader for The Los Angeles Review and The Weight Journal, she recently served as an AWP Poetry Mentor.