by Candice Kelsey

arrange themselves
like butterflies near petals
of fleur-de-lis curtains
delicate as I’d like to be
scalloped porcelain
bowl beside a tiny spoon
on the buffet
this March morning
at the Monteagle Inn

I’d much rather be
that mother in the corner
whose daughter leans in
or the one there
whose daughter’s hands
scoop berries
perfect globed jewels
red blue black ready
for breakfast’s weather
a snowfall of granola
clouds of yogurt

rather than me
alone at this stupid table
Mother’s Weekend
waiting for my daughter
who may oversleep
and miss this tenderness
of conversation
the tinkling of forks
like fairy chimes heralding
chiffon delights of
motherhood I could

be delicate but no
I am brutal instead
like my mother
a still life in crinoline
cold sip of bitter coffee
am I the song of a window
wasp too for texting
where the hell are u
though unlike my mother
I never hit send

Candice M. Kelsey (she/her) is a writer and educator living in Los Angeles and Georgia. Often anchored in the seemingly quotidian, her work explores the intersections of place, body, and belonging. She has been featured in SWWIM, The Laurel Review, Poet Lore, Passengers Journal, and About Place Journal among others. Candice mentors an incarcerated writer through PEN America and reads for The Los Angeles Review. Her comfort-character is Jessica Fletcher. Please find her @Feed_Me_Poetry and candicemkelseypoet.com.