poems by rachel kellum
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47
after Nathan Brown
To the touch, my face feels
like a bloated marshmallow
when I wake, the kind
about to slip its skin over fire.
Puffy, warm, loose. Not so
fine lines and nearsightedness
combine to make memories rise.
My mother’s voice in her late 40s,
50s, 60s, 70s, before her vanity
on a small red-cushioned
wrought iron stool
in the master bathroom,
magnifying mirror parked
like a goblet of mercury.
Hearing my morning approach,
lifting a folded, cold wash cloth
off her eyes, wide blue and bright
with disgust at her body’s betrayal,
she would bark, “Look at these eyes!”
and jab an accusing finger
at the soft face, not the mirror,
that has always loved me.
2019
I Can Never be 16 Again and Wouldn’t Want to
Though there was that boy with Florida
Eyes who listened to strange, blue
Music yet smiled like a guiltless child.
A child with muscles, cool tennis shoes.
Football player, track runner, woods walker.
Rain chased him everywhere, across fields,
Over water. He couldn’t escape. Neither could I.
Not on the sail boat on Lake Springfield
Where we fell asleep, ever virgins, prom night.
Not in his dad’s blue-black Corvette, hugging
Back road curves through corn to Riverton.
Not in the woods on our backs looking up
Into yellow leafed hearts of giant oaks.
Not in the catfish slip of the Sangamon,
Dangling legs daring the river-cut cliff.
Not in my basement’s windowless dark
Where an endless kiss could end in salt.
And it did. We did. On the frontage road
Witnessed by headlights and stars.
I couldn’t hold the bruised cloud of him.
He drifted off, past Tallahassee, Atlanta,
Over the panhandle, casting a shadow
The shape of a boy all the way to Illinois.
2019
Late for the Haiku Workshop
For Sue Ellen
Piñon filled window
Unwashed dishes and bodies
Usurp a timely arrival
2019
Kids and Dogs
When you have kids and dogs,
that’s all you have, a grandmother told
her daughter once, who later told me,
a young mother bemoaning the slow
disintegration of my precious things.
Dog-scratched leather couch.
Ripped loveseat. Urine scented rugs.
Walls smeared with strawberry jam.
Shattered handmade ceramic bowls.
Vomit-stained, dog-haired car upholstery.
Kitchen table scarred by knives and forks.
I fantasized a future in which my stuff
survived mayhem. Now it has arrived.
I can guarantee: when you have kids
and dogs, you don’t even have them.
2019
Half Mud Half Slush
Trail divided lengthwise, half mud half slush,
each foot struggles with different problems,
like a brain walking a body alone through piñon
while simultaneously overlaying an older scene:
a dog’s tail wagging yards ahead and stopping
mid stride to run back to check she is still there,
past and present always gathered beneath her,
beneath each moment like two competing feet.
2019
Backyard Slopes
Fearless my youngest
Son refuses tasks
Of Sisyphus
Ascends simple hills
Descends on skis
Risks slips
To soar and switch
180 degrees
Masters steep
Snow slopes
He assembles
Himself
2019