poems by rachel kellum

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3/4/19 3/4/19

Kids and Dogs

When you have kids and dogs,
that’s all you have, a grandmother told
her daughter once, who later told me,
a young mother bemoaning the slow
disintegration of my precious things.
Dog-scratched leather couch.
Ripped loveseat. Urine scented rugs.
Walls smeared with strawberry jam.
Shattered handmade ceramic bowls.
Vomit-stained, dog-haired car upholstery.
Kitchen table scarred by knives and forks.
I fantasized a future in which my stuff
survived mayhem. Now it has arrived.
I can guarantee: when you have kids
and dogs, you don’t even have them.

2019

3/3/19 3/3/19

Half Mud Half Slush

Trail divided lengthwise, half mud half slush,
each foot struggles with different problems,
like a brain walking a body alone through piñon
while simultaneously overlaying an older scene:

a dog’s tail wagging yards ahead and stopping
mid stride to run back to check she is still there,
past and present always gathered beneath her,
beneath each moment like two competing feet.

2019