poems by rachel kellum
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Lahne’s Riddles
If a man were paddling down the Canadian River
and he lost his paddle,
how many pancakes in a doghouse?
Seventeen, because ice cream has no bones.
* * * * *
What’s the difference between a duck?
A vest, because a bicycle has no wings.
* * * * *
Why is an elephant grey?
Because a blue bird is blue.
* * * * *
How many philaramics in a platicus rex?
Six.
tiny reveries
arkansas river
by behemoth cottonwoods
swirls of water
agitate thoughts
until a rock
or peculiar pattern
of persistent
water somewhat solid
where the eye might rest
but off I go
mosquito stings soft skin
behind the knee
to slap me
into tiny reveries
of resentment
2018
Another Woman’s Garden
with thanks to Sheila and all who tended her garden
I wasn’t exactly happy, chopping back Russian Sage
Along the carport and rock-lined drive, piling
Dusty twigs, coughing. It had to be done. Happiness
Would only come in later summer days with fresh-
Branched acrid blooms. A pay off for my pruning.
It was cold at first, then warmer as I worked. First
I shed the hat, then coat, so stopped to don a bra.
Inheriting another’s plants, you learn
How she or her renters pruned. Or not.
By ragged or planed edges, I see where women
Broke or cut back growth with hands or shears,
Or simply let nature prune with years. I guess
The ages of all those women’s backs by how
Tenaciously established is the matted grass
In crowded strawberries. They anticipated me
Or perhaps their own flagging memory by leaving
Names: be grateful for brittle plastic cards
Next to crispy plants: Bleeding hearts—Dicentra,
Virginia Creeper—Parthenocissus quinquefolia,
Silvermound—Artemisia schmidtiana nana.
And mysterious red barked trees, only one tagged:
Montmorency Cherry—Prunus cerasus.
I get out garden books and look them up,
Marvel at what sisters are willing to give space to grow.
A lover of useful medicinals, I learn to accept
Other women’s medicines of color, shape, texture, scent.
Not all plants must be ingested. The eyes, the hands,
The taking in of nose-breath—these are mouths too.
I learn the messy logic of their winding rock-lined paths.
I learn their vision of layers—ground huggers to towers.
I learn the shapes of new leaves nestled in the clutch
Of last year’s deaths. Some stalks break like hollow straws
In my grasp, woody others need shears.
Bleached skeletons give tiny greens from their hearts.
I learn backwards, how death looks before life,
The way my sister’s face gave me a life-face.
I sprang from the center of her fade, newly bodied.
Faced with death, I try not to tug. Instead, I break stems
Flush to soil. Sometimes I do pull, examine and bend
Roots to see if they are wick, supple, rhizomes sending
Shoots. Most, if perennial, do not easily give up their grip.
In early April, some, like me, already whisper green.
Others do not. They need more wet and heat. I wait.
If they pull easily, my guess: simple annuals who carry on
By sending out black seeds. Who knows in which bed
Or designated path I will meet their lawless offspring.
This His First Night Drive
After the movie, driving home from Alamosa,
I pulled off Highway 17 so we could swap seats.
My son—newly permitted, this his first night drive—
Clutched the wheel tightly at ten and two o’clock.
Tense? I asked. I’m nervous, he replied. Why?
All these bunnies on both sides of the road!
Sure enough, there they were—every few yards,
Ears poked up in tufts of grasses I had overlooked,
Giant desert jackrabbits peering out in silhouette,
Perfect profiles of chocolate bunnies, ears perked.
Prolific— no wonder they are Easter’s mascot.
Farther down, more and more, their lumped corpses
Littered the road, unable to rise from the dead
Except as wings, promising a veritable buffet
For morning’s magpies. (A memory: we almost
Named him Corvidae). Poor Sam, I thought,
As knowledge of this deadly power dawned on him.
First, he dropped his speed. Then, this boy, who
Hasn’t yet discarded childhood’s matted teddy bears,
Who shares a bed with his old dog, began to practice
The fast stop, brakes slammed just enough to save us all.
2018
If I Could Draw a Celtic Knot
On the yellow-fringed curves
out of Crestone, a yak herd.
Two black bulls lock horns
at 7 am, joined by a third.
Slowing down to observe,
my eye floats above pasture,
looks down upon their rut-knot,
laughs at the thought
of drawing a triple head-butt—
a symmetry, a trinity, of yak lust.
2018
Swiping through Netflix
Swiping through Netflix
Nothing sticks. Wasted minutes
Better spent silent.
2018
Icon
On what felt like
and ultimately was
my life’s final night
with my father,
his fast yet failing feet
shuffled to the archway
and lingered,
voice stolen—
a stooped silhouette,
icon backlit by blue light—
to look into the room
where I lay in the dark
on an air mattress,
slowly deflating,
for a last look at me,
his breathing child,
who would
drive away forever
in the morning.
Just Before Seven AM
The naked Easter bunny puts on
Her husband’s thick cotton robe.
Upon sliding open the deck door,
Styrofoam egg carton in hand,
She hears neighbor children
In the upper octaves of delight—
Did you find the green one?
Here’s the pink!—and she is grateful
Her own children sleep late.
And she is grateful for the way
Sound carries on a mountainside
As she goes to work, hiding eggs.
2018
Colored Egg Artist
Sam had the patience I did not—
holding already lovely colored eggs
perfectly still in the oily dye, again
and again, half by half, side by side,
building a history, an archeology of color—
variegated tops, bottoms and bands overlaid
with mottles of marbleized continents.
As each masterpiece dried, I marveled. He asked,
“Is there such a thing as a colored egg artist?”
“There is now,” I said, surprised at my surprise.
2018