Candice M. Kelsey

                      Parable with Flags, Humidity & Loss

In our Kia, the final odyssey Atlanta to Augusta,
            I made note of the distance. Delusion burst,
Atlanta is not a viable airport option. LAX had been
            a neighbor, mere blocks down Manchester.
A braided nymph appeared on the side of the 20, asked
            what the fuck are you doing? Disappeared
into her cave. We crossed into Georgia where the flags
            were flying. Trump, stars and bars, Don’t Tread
on Me, Go Dawgs, and Blue Lives Matter. So proud
            boy bumper stickers really do exist unlike
Yak racks or the Mississippi River water line. Gun racks
            on trucks rising in tidal Dixie ferocity today.
Pulling into our new driveway, the car was silent
            as a sacrifice or slaughter. Each kid opened
a door to the Southern summer’s maw. Cruel-greeting 
           blade. I offered invocation to the Muse, asking
sing in me something normal. L.A. kids don’t understand
            humidity, damp and unnerving. They unfolded
into the assault of reality’s new address. To make it
            here meant giving something up, memory maybe.
Like any good mother weaving optimism for months,
            I taught them how to unweave, buy time.

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 among others. Candice reads for The Los Angeles Review, and her comfort-character is Jessica Fletcher. Please find her @Feed_Me_Poetry and https://www.candicemkelseypoet.com/.