poems by rachel kellum
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Black Place II
Black-PlaceII, 1945, Georgia O'Keeffe
O’Keeffe’s dark lipped plans
Weren’t pink gummed with ghostly teeth—
but slant lit badlands.
2013
Solitude
I’ve known the gentle crash
Of wave that whispers up and down
The slurping beach, combing
Sea-spat shells, distorted weeds,
Two feet, sopping driftwood masks.
I’ve opened up the ancient chest
In a basement a century used,
Where all the silver knives
And forks are tarnished
And there are no spoons.
I’ve climbed the minaret
And cried out in a crazy tongue
I did not recognize, and no one
Came to pray with me but flocks
Whose only sky and word is god.
I’ve laid upon the battlefield
A stiff, archaic nude,
My almost-smile undaunted
By the side-sunk spear, wishing
I were horses in Marc’s red and blue.
2013
Self-Immolation
Having lit the match,
Wind crawls up my fast wick back.
Liquid butter burns.
2013
Possible Fruit
These are not the roots
For which you pine,
But two lie next to two
Mangoes in my bowl.
I do not misconstrue
Life’s simple shrines
To possible fruit.
2013
On this Desert Land Enchanted
Tight cottonwood fists
wield gold-sheathed spears, our backyard
Balm of Gilead.
2013
With thanks to Poe for the title
Chöd
Every day I offer the mandala of my body twice.
I wipe the grains of rice from the mound of my head.
I gesture signs for every element, thinking someone
Could stretch out in me, breathe, swim, be warmed, fed.
I offer myself as a great wheel, make of my hands
Eight mountain peaks of every met need reaching out
Infinitely. When I snap my fingers, I disappear.
I may not mean it.
I also dream of consuming you, of offering up the trumpet
Of my old thighbone to blow. I’m not 16. I didn’t die
By accident as is required by such a morbid instrument.
Still, I’d make that awful drone if it meant your lips,
Your breath through me. And while I’d offer my own skull
For half a damaru, I’d want mine joined crown to crown
With that summit of you, skins stretched over cavities
Where rhyme once lived with assonance.
We could ring bass emptiness, echo space where foreheads
Slow-merged, tongues full of words, dumb for long hours
In each other’s mouths. Surely, fine buddhas and khandros
Have lent us the endless white and red feasts of their bodies.
Last night, wild wind blew through my bony dream. All my dead
And every dog swooped in. I’m scrapped, spread out in countless
Bellies, every me-filet hungry. I eat someone new every day.
You swallow my tail; this is how I pray.
2013
Aubade of Hildegard
First, the cat requires only surfaces—
My dangling, flaccid hand, asleep.
Her face slicks the shell of my palm.
Ears and temples find my pure edges.
I take her offered silk in languor
Then the quick, needle teeth:
I have shown you what I want,
How we fit, the morning purrs
Like a god,
Touch me.
2013
Materials Engineer
A company
Specializing
In ceramic matrix
Composites—
Heat shields
To protect space crafts
Upon reentry—
Wants
Someone bigger
Than the work.
He must write
Himself
In 150 characters
Or less.
Space
And punctuation
Count.
He
Understands
Compression,
Writes a poem.
Structure comes
In ten minutes.
A barista assists.
Not enough
Characters for a title,
A paradigm tilts:
Curiosity—
When unchecked, killed the cat
When cloaked, Schrodinger cannot say
But, when cradled, took this boy and flew over the moon.
How could he know
They would call him
Right away?
With thanks to Chad Williams for his story, his poem
Golden, CO
7 April 2013