poems by rachel kellum
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hermitage of the furred ones
the dog and cat
live like a monk and nun
share a low bed
warmth, silence
long days, crawling light
something like love
Dear Danny,
I forgot I bought him the book.
First thing today, Grey texted six photos
of Jack’s “What Can I Say.”
A destiny read, he said.
Cage’s chance operations
Grey’s fingers on the edge
of morning pages, Amor Fati’s long spine
pried wide, at first I thought
his fingernails were mine.
Remember him?
Jack too large for the tiny screen
I grabbed my own worn copy
scanned the contents, page 66, read it
to Dorell steeping coffee in the kitchen.
Jack Fest program tucked in
Seven years ago, the night
you met Grey, just 18, at Lithic, you said
How are you or something and he said
Tired, life is long, and you said
in your slow, crooked-smile drawl
We can only hope, and he shrugged
the smallest shrug. Later that night
he hung briefly off his belt from rafters
in Wendy’s garage, pulled up
against gravity
with hard wiry arms. I wondered
why he wore his black hoody up
the next warm day, stacking a precarious cairn
on the edge of Trickster Ridge, a signpost to life:
Go any direction from here.
By miracle, Jack still holds Grey’s hand
in Leadville, sits here with me, in me
watching emptiness, like Wallace,
push snow off pinyon branches.
What can we say?
Because No Poem will be Read at Trump’s Second Inauguration, Here is Mine
Convinced by scientific TikTok evidence, my sons
believe the earth won’t sustain them as old men
Undeterred, one surfs wild rivers and steep snow slopes
Dante’s new Virgil, smiling guide to final earthly joys
The other builds gorgeous archaeologies of sound
ephemeral festival cities for the hopeful, the lost
My daughter fights fires, serves those bent by poverty
pours love into her infant, sparkling boy
My husband builds houses for Buddhist lamas, for peace
for the comfortable rich who cannot sleep
I teach children how to nurture worms, sprouts, compost
make murals for their greenhouse, useful clay cups
Hear this, you broken, misled, profit-blinded, king-minded hoard-men
We will not stop, we will never give up
Your four-year swansong will come to its natural end