poems by rachel kellum
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To Measure Him
Dozens of number-covered papers
Claim to represent what is vital about my son.
His blood. Knowledge. College readiness. Genes.
Brain chemicals disguised as ambition, anxiety, love.
I study them like runes, riddles, scientific scripture.
What numbers are light blue like his hurt eyes?
Gravelly with laughter over mastered digital dances?
Flushed like his kind face over fragrant cast iron pans?
Steaming with pure hockey joy? Long road silent?
Early to sleep on the family couch, cradled in yarn,
Wrapped in the magic arms of a mandala afghan?
Numbers strike as monolingual, unholy arrogance:
This summing up, ridiculous reduction of gentleness,
Unbearable empathy, early existentialism.
It makes more sense to measure him by this:
How many moon eclipses he has witnessed
Just beyond a gasp-shared meteor. One.
2019
When he is not home
When he is not home
to warm the bed with me
I pull the duvet overhead
and breathe and breathe
then lift the cover just a bit
to suck warmth to my feet–
still cold when I fall asleep.
December 2018
4 AM Finances
Turning and turning
on the dark morning spit
vigilant sleepless
I sizzle and drip
for a thousand licking
mouths of the widening pit.
2019
Sage’s Puja
Having wandered the Lakshmi gift shop
With my daughter Sage, we end
Our ashram tour in the circular temple.
I stop at guru photos and bow, drop a dollar
In a plate, not personally knowing
The special gift or allure of these holy men,
Only their serious, black eyed gaze.
Sage, a newly hired Tacoma firefighter,
Pauses before photos and paintings, too,
Asks, Who is this? The Divine Mother.
And this? Babaji. And here’s Shiva, I say,
Knowing she knows only his Nataraja form,
Brass dancer engulfed by a ring of fire
Who roamed the bookshelves
And windowsills of her childhood home.
Having walked the solemn perimeter,
This woman who nearly burned down
Her bedroom twice before fully grown
Comes to the fire extinguisher
Near the door, taking its modern place
On a wall of ancient gods and saints.
In slow reverence, she lifts her hand
To touch the words Cold Fire.
Sighing, ignited, she throws a glance
At her firefighter fiancé,
Her smiling mouth beatific, aflame.
2019
The Closest Ones the Brightest
On a day of domestic nouns, undecorated,
This Christmas refuses to go retrograde
Or snooze through the moment by resurrecting
High-buzzing toy trains or the forsythia bush
I planted when my sister died. My nostrils
Did not flare in sorrow over chemo anecdotes.
Sunlight yellowed only the mountain range.
Wrapped in a blanket, feet propped on the porch,
I slipped into a micro nap and woke to coyotes
Broadcasting the new minutes of evening.
Juncos flitted behind me in the pines.
Later, walking piñon trails of moon-lost night,
Strange flashlight throwing sight forward
And back at once to warn our single-filed feet
Of stones, I thought of red clay, the joyful skill
I find my fingers still possess, of gently pinching,
Smoothing shoulders, clavicles, muscled necks,
Of fashioning tiny human forms for company,
Of Nü Wa, Chinese goddess, who carefully molded
The noble from yellow earth and, tiring,
Gave up to make the poor by dipping a rope
In mud and flicking it about, dropping dollops
Of common folk, elbows bent to serve.
Thank gods the thick Milky Way sparkled me
Out of my head and cold thighs itched me
Out of Marxist bitterness because my dog was
Out of town, not stitching me with dog bliss
To the night, the sandy mountain trail all his.
Only my man was by my side, quiet, digesting
Chili and cinnamon rolls, both of us making
Walking sounds, his boots clicking, my jacket
Swishing, both of us squinting at headlights
Crawling up Road T, heading our way, gaining
Elevation, the closest ones the brightest.
2018
Outside My Classroom Window
Wind-whipped black trash bags—
Dumpster flags flap above sill.
No, two ravens shine.
2018
The Guitar
A guitar watches a blue boy
play video games all day.
Its blind eye does not blink.
He cannot think of school.
Strings vibrate when he
laughs in vanished victory,
groans in bloodless defeat.
Xs shine in his eyes, ask
Why do anything?
The guitar has no reply.
2018
Welfare State
You Tom Buchanans
You Ayn Rands
You million- billionaires
Who hold out soft hands
You forgetful heirs
Who suck
On birth-earned generations
Of well-invested
Family-sponsored welfare:
Spare us—
The teaching poor
The working class
Paying off
Our bloated master’s
Who never wake
From nightmares
Of looming financial
Or bodily disaster—
Your judgment
For begging more pay
Or worse, to suck
Your hoarded
Christian taxes
While we pinch
Days and months
To fund your profits
Your endless battles
Where you send kids
Who trade the bodies
We made them
For promises
Of health care, travel
Education
To die protecting
Your subsidized
Hand me down
Speculations.
2018