The world walks past dying flowers
No desire to offer the smallest baptismal sacrament,
Not even a casual blessing
Sprinkled from the bottom of a Dasani
I flew from Augusta to L.A.
Reached the foot of my walk-up past midnight
Saw the neighbors had not watered my wildflowers
How biblical their two-week drought
Unintentional spring fast
Hours after my taxi’s headlights dimmed from the gate,
Pope Francis took his last breath
And I was left to tend dead flowers
Dried and starched like a hall of unworn mitres
Parched and unceremonial as discarded zucchettos
Turning away from another papal conclave
A Holy See of bowed stems and useless cappelli romani
Even from white pots barren as a darkened sanctuary
There will be resurrection
And we all find our personal popes
Like today when my Instacart shopper, Freddy, fed me
A Post-it left on the frozen lasagna: Amazing
things are going to happen today–enjoy them all
Once I had a lover who took pleasure depriving me
Of affection for weeks at a time
Only through skin hunger can orgasm bloom
He had no way of knowing I was a living buffet of not enough
I know there are people who water flowers
So I listen to Abdullah Ibrahim on repeat
The cover of his Celebration album shows
His arms outstretched toward the South African sky
Its syncopating stretch of blue across the Barrier of Spears
Horizon’s holy kiss for the worshipping peaks
Of Mafadi, Makoaneng, and Njesuthi
These songs become a hymnal way
—
Candice M. Kelsey (she/her) is a poet and educator living in L.A. and Georgia. She’s developed a taste for life’s absurd glow, really long skirts, and juicy opera podcasts. She roasts vegetables like it’s a sacred ritual and wears mostly black because her late father-in-law said it’s not her color. Somehow her work has received Pushcart and Best-of-the-Net nominations, and she woke up one day as the author of 8 books. Please acknowledge her existence @Feed_Me_Poetry or www.candicemkelseypoet.com.
