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From The Porch When You Live on a summer's eve at 436 Pier Avenue
When you live in a hundred-year-old house, knobs grow loose
and windows become stubborn.
You greet the plumber by his first name and puzzle over the back steps
splitting open like hot buttered lobster rolls.
When you live in a hundred-year-old house, you speak to ghosts.
They take you by the hand and point in their sfumato way
toward a secret drug stash or the corner where the twin suicides unfolded.
You breathe their exhales and hear their hopes.
When you live in a hundred-year-old house, you cherish the cast iron floor register
and its inconsistent heat.
You imagine walking under the same ceiling-plaster relief work
as your 1920s doppelgänger who carried fresh flowers and citrus
striding in her Nile-green day dress.
She becomes your confidante.
When you live in a hundred-year-old house, your father-in-law
takes every opportunity to criticize its insufficient square footage.
You find yourself giddy that one bathroom is a beyond blessing
and apologetic that a trail of toys clutters the neighbor’s view.
When you live in this old house, you know it (and your marriage) won't last.
You know eventually a developer will make an offer the owners can't refuse.
You lose.
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Lemon Fig Avocado
I killed two birds with one stone, then shoveled them off toward the lemon tree, prepared a size 12 shoe box, shrouded each in my son’s outgrown pajamas and lowered them into it, quickly closing the lid. I upended the lumpy bags in the trash bin and tucked the little coffin down.
Staring out from the kitchen window while washing a few dishes, alone and admiring my competence, I contemplated repositioning it to keep the bodies snug, to protect my children from seeing a feather or two. I poured a glass of Pinot and enjoyed the chill in my throat.
I leashed the dogs. While slipping on my Birkenstocks, I noticed the corking was beginning to crumble. The buckles were rusting too. I wondered, as I often did, how much longer they would last. Why won’t the fig and avocado flower? But the dogs soon distracted me.
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Candice Kelsey © 2020
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Candice Kelsey's debut book of poetry STILL I AM PUSHING releases soon with Finishing Line Press. Her poetry has appeared in Poets Reading the News, Poet Lore, and others. She won the 2019 Two Sisters Writing's Steve Carr Contest, received Honorable Mention for Common Ground's 2019 Poetry Contest, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.