We Visit His Grave Every Week 

Kandace James

Never realize how muddy I am
until I reveal my palms;

milk exchanged for soil, saturated
in salt. Mom mistakes me

for dad again, my skin sheds
its blackness, floats atop my head,

hisses at the walls. It is
black. Black not like brown. Black,

not like absence of light. Black like dad’s
eyes in photographs, or the leather

concealing my prayer book. Mom
screams at who I appear to be and my flesh

unravels up to the meeting of my twisted
twine. Twine burst into ash; sprinkles her

face until it is no longer her face.
The walls leak, so do I. At times I have

no skin, at times I have no skin. At times I think
I have no skin. Mom erupts

into bees, trying to find
something sweet.

Kandace James is a graduate student attending Kennesaw State University working towards her Masters in Professional Writing. She is a poet and screenwriter whose writing reflects a push through doubt. She writes about the overcoming of fear. Her poems have been published in  Silk Hollows, Josephine Quarterly and the Brushfire Literature & Arts Journal. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She was recently awarded a laurel in the 2019 LA Live Film Festival and was officially selected for a laurel in the 2020 Short. Sweet. Film Fest.