poems by rachel kellum
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Instamatic photo—
of a stack of mixed media paper
corners fluttering
weighted with gelli print plates
pliable, playful
irresistible to small and large hands
a box of acrylic tubes, most hues
two brayers, pack of baby wipes
mineral oil, old catalogues
two heaps of fern and artemisia fronds
clover and rose leaves
waiting for the daughter, newly sonned
and mother, newly creped
to begin, to create
mother touched by daughter’s
candid shot, the mechanical click
and whirring unfurling
of the tongue of the machine
snatched and shook, placed
on a table to develop
anticipation of a moment seized
beautifully
days later
found facedown in the trash bin
by the mother
who put it in her journal beneath
this poem, finally aware
after a night of perimenopausal
moping, that photos are not
necessarily memories or validation
and the women’s printed
garden leaves and hands, layered
deeper images buried
though not memories either
will suffice to jog the mind
into sweet recall of the windy
day they made prints
an act of pre-Kodak archiving
and that the photo itself, a still life
deemed, for some reason
a poor work of art by the daughter—
is repurposed by the mother
as a guard against dementia
her own mother’s quiet new friend
who resends the same old photo
of the two of them
day after day by text
Wholly, but
In my daughter’s home
her living dream
I wake
and walk
paths of roses
between evergreens
visit jabbering chickens
rest under a pergola of kiwi
chase her glorious bubbling
little boy
wholly
I am in it
but for missing
my love’s skin
his eyes so close to mine
we are nearness blind
In Praise of Our Bouquet
May our houses smell
of living!
Caramelized onions!
Roasted garlic, salmon!
Perfect pungence!
Sweet funk of dogs
and the marriage bed!
Sheets ripe
with salt, sleep and love
that does not succumb!
No! Not
to the perfumed
ravages of a rotting age!
Not
to Tide!
Anxious tidiness!
Unwashed until we must!
March into the fray!
Rise above the chemical
Dawn!
Rise, lift the blinds!
Let in the sun—
Light, our housekeeper!
Nose, meticulous historian
of home!
All praise the precious bouquet
of the holy biome!
break
dust on windows
gives light a place
to land
and cedar shadow
clear demarcation
we are not outside
we are in
he notices trees
browning
wonders drought
she is paying for
a two beer break
from herself
heavier, days
there are possibly
too many books
too many words
in the world
too many stages
she is dirt on glass
filter
there must be something
light, a man said
funny
to entertain
the wealthy
white
crowd between bouts
of sorrow
a break from the world
they make
the women say
bow out
with thanks to Barbara and Hillary, Terry and Dorell
after therapy
in the close quarters
of dream
Granny came to me
uncharacteristically
hugged me
her dumpling body ancient
enveloping
mine pressed into hers
like a thumb
in pie dough
her nose that familiar dollop
in generations of faces
and right behind her
warm release
my father
her son
having waited his turn
pulls me close
to press an awkward
fatherkiss
against the corner
of my mouth
hold me in his dark
discomfort I welcome
like an apology
like a late
thank you
I wake to
inbox poems
three in a row
on the dead visiting
when they
when we
are ready
The Imaginary Man in My Head
that pale, cool editor
wouldn’t let me write about sweetness.
He called it Hallmark shit.
So I kept it to myself,
lived it with my children,
unashamed to watch the minutes
go by wordless, illiterate
and toothless as a babe.
The problem—there is no record of love
but for what was written
in my children’s cells and mine.
I can only hope the hard stories
I chose to tell the man do not overwrite
the truth of our lived love,
the endless hours we wrote
upon each other.
the myth of blue blood
from the base of a remote mountain
named for the blood of Christ
in bed, over bagels, chicken soup, stir fry
we stare into our palms
watch protests on screens
city streets pumping people, songs, signs
like starved blood toward the heart
of a country no one can find
Hufflepuff Home for the Holiday
My youngest
now a man
spread out
on the basement
couch
with two giants
marbled dogs
Eo and Fang
a fragrant heap
of ten-legged sleep
when we forget to net
robins strip the tree’s
cherries in two days, no jam
no pie, no crumble