Dasha Kelly (c) 2015

Intention fills the chimes
Nascent breezes dash between ribbons of tin
Ducking around soft winds like school girls scampering the playground  
secretly hoping to get caught
Porch to porch, spring teases its carillon song

Dasha Kelly (c) 2016

The Golden Shovel: Use words from one Gwendolyn Brooks line to anchor each line of a new poem
Forgiveness hangs flimsy between you
and the raw truth you've come to know:
Resentments do come home to roost, to peck, to force you
into navigating fatherhood from your knees. There are
explosives undetonated on your tongue, tasting
like guilt, goddamn and gunpowder all swirled together
You teach yourself to swallow, to repent, to deny the
flames licking from your chest. Arms crossed, she bids you a bitter winter

Dasha Kelly (c) 2016

And then you wonder
What has fallen behind the cupboard  
Actual things, folded between the drawer
and its casing Hinges and seams of your surroundings  
snagged against this detritus of your life
Episodes of your existence sloughed to the floorboards
Archiving time in layers of dust, crumbs, pen caps, a
dryer sheet, AA battery, pine needles and --without
a doubt—a penny  

You had gasped
That one time
Forced behind the fridge
Its hidden spectacle of filth and toppled things  

Leave the cupboard be
Menus slipped beneath the dresser tracks, phone
numbers and reminders swallowed into the walls
All you have lost is an unfathomable metric
Needless to add things already

Dasha Kelly (c) 2015

He takes his seat
along the edges of my periphery
Always with me
My soul finds him in the room. Sometimes
when I’m leading or teaching he might
lean back against the cabinet or
hold the door jamb with his shoulder
Tapping on his phone
Taking in the scene
Gazing over strangers  
and chairs lovingly at me
Nearer than his physics
He stands beside me in his absence
Brightens rooms he does not fill
A landmass and two time zones wedged between us, and still
his silhouette fills the empty seats beside me
I hear him in the kitchen
Feel mischief brush the outlines of my skirt
Far, never gone
Out, never away
Just earlier today,
I felt him taking his seat