poems by rachel kellum
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No metaphors for
Say hello to the great shining
embroidered with your fleshy personality.
(The shining may be a clear hole, but if that scares you
think instead a rimless, bowlless, friendly bowl.)
I pull at our tight threads with poems.
Unraveling, I talk too much.
I’m paid to tell you what I know, but there are holes
in knowing funneling toward the shining hole,
and you fall through. I can’t catch you.
You can’t catch me.
We think our words are handholds,
or that our hands are words, but they are only bumps
stalling speed so fast it’s empty, so vast
even the sky falls through.
2012
Where Words Wait
When I am nearly quiet
and perfect words appear,
silence is more perfect.
I tuck the precious phrase
behind my ear like windy hair,
or gum to save for later chewing.
I promise words a quick return.
My most important work requires
such wild undoing: an empty mouth.
2012
The Work of Dogs
Like my young pup
I can’t resist nosing dead starlings
in the back yard of my heart.
I snatch up every one
in my well-fed jaws and dart.
Yell for me all you want.
I’ll come back when I’m done.
2012
Clean Haiku
After deep cleaning
the same old house for ten years
it starts cleaning you.
2012
Hopeful Ruin
Looking for what is holy in my aversion,
I close my eyes to take in the burning
of my inner bureaucracy, plastic hallways
puddling in a maze. I leap through oxygen
of a most stubborn desire—the fuel
of my decade-long moment of hopeful ruin.
2012
Catch and Release
We wait for it
The writhing hatch to flow
from fresh mouths
Can’t resist
the fleck, wet wings
quilting light
Hit quick
Hunger numbs
the lip to the nick
Thrill the swim
against our own mouth
and every known current
Pulled by unseen line
into someone’s sight, the pool
of a chest, the net
We pray for wet hands
To be inexplicably held
and slide away unscathed
No hand-shaped cloud
tattooed upon
the skin’s egress
2012
featured in Riseforms
So that I may better love him
The moon in my blood
is not afraid
of the shadowy tents
of your crowded refugee camp,
the stolen doorknobs
of your childhood hospital,
the quiet drawers
of your small corporation,
the crumbling walls
of your rainbow monastery.
It calls them out by name,
locks eyes, says
Tell me why. Take me
to your leader
so that I may kiss
his shining, edgeless face.
2012
with thanks to Valerie Haugen for most of the seventh stanza
Despite
being a child of many pneumonias
bearer of my mother’s tales
of those who fell asleep and never woke
lungs full of death’s water
scarf wrapped tight around neck and mouth
hood up, gloves tucked, buttoned to the throat
I rolled out three forbidden white globes
and made my first frozen man.
A rebel glowing
with countless chest xrays
lungs unstung by cold
I learned how snow sticks to snow
how to tell the truth
of righteous disobedience
for there he stood and I
would not tear us down.
2012