poems by rachel kellum
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Mueller, Not Kerouac
City Lights Bookstore
I look for Jack on the shelves
Not as books, but air
(He's there)
15 February 2020
When I Think I’m at Peace
Coyote loves digging me.
I follow him to the boneyard
again and again. In the quiet
I caress the bleached skulls
of my favorite mistakes.
I remember eyes moving
in sockets, lips, tongues,
each one very hungry,
headquarters of whole
bodies I thought were mine.
Arms and legs, fingers, toes,
vertebrae, hips all mixed up
as one. Guts are long gone.
He sits at my feet, panting
proudly like a lab who just
dropped a fat, warm goose.
Good boy, I say. This humerus
is for you. He runs away.
Crestone Mosquitos
Thousands hover and crawl
all over the sliding door
like alien invaders
sniffing blood through glass.
Tomatoes are growing,
Kale and mixed greens.
I will let them go to seed,
held hostage in my home
by mosquitos
They gather in shadows
of rich foliage.
Armored in full sleeves
and long pants in the slow heat
of summer, I sweat, reach in
to gather blooms.
I wince at the whine a choir
of bloodlust.
I watch a newborn’s mother
slap his head. His first
mosquito bite, baptized by a splat
of his own new blood.
End of July, I can finally
walk my dogs without
mosquito net, with bare arms
and legs under stars.
The stars shine like the eyes
of mosquitos endlessly
swarming the night.
A Juniper/Piñon Forest Makes Its Case For Forgetting
Dead branches, unneedled
Sprung early and low—
Trees’ oldest fond mem’ries
Suck vigor, spark glow.
I am Handing Off My Children
I am handing off my children
to you. Yes, you.
Her burning lamps, fire hoses,
massive dogs, Deathly Hallows,
spring beauty, conch tattoo
His nose scratch, snowboard air,
peanut butter, Poe rib-quote, fractal dreams,
archaeologies of digital sound
His preschool tortilla recipe, flawless cookies,
sunset-from-the-stupa gaze, Mannaz ink,
poleless skis, dog whisperings
They have secrets you don’t know.
I can’t tell you. Earn them.
Twelve Stay-at-Home Haiku
to honor my annual Poem-a-Day practice, one for each day I missed this month, plus an extra one for Dorell
How did I forget
National Poetry Month?
Better start writing
*
Phone plugged in, I sleep
No need to set the alarm
Work’s habit wakes me
*
Back ache, melted face
This couch my awful office
Thanks, Google Classroom
*
Delphinium grows
In plastic pots on my porch
They always stay home
*
Endless To Do clicks
Essays, artwork trickle in
Teach, reduced to tabs
*
Every other day
Shower or not to shower
I know by sniffing
*
State’s first phone alert:
Essential activities
Like walking your pets
My dog, Hank, agrees
Could have told me this himself
Without governors
*
Fauci, forgive me
I know now is not the time
To take up smoking
*
Cemetery trail
We walk, gun shots pow pow pow
Walking partners balk
*
Light one smoke a day
I tell myself, rationing
Then spark up stale butts
*
Speaking of stale butts
With so much time on our hands
We grab each other’s
National Poetry Month?
Ten days in, ten feet from a friend, walking wide sandy roads out near the cemetery where ATVs and gunluvas tend to gather to shatter silence somewhere near dusk, I realized I forgot. How could I forget a ten year commitment to April's Poem-a-Day practice? If you are here for some pandemically inspired, bored reason, join me in the challenge. It's not too late.
National/Global Poetry Writing Month (Na/GloPoWriMo) offers great prompts each day. I haven't checked them out, but I will if I get stuck. I'm not stuck yet, but it is only my Day One. I've gotta make up for lost time.
