poems by rachel kellum
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three hands off haiku
snow falls on wet signs
penned in permanent marker
pumped high to car honks
block-head men shout trump
pickups roar, small prick proxies
spewing thick black smoke
litanies of loss
no chant or sign large enough
to scorn, mourn it all
a body after its own image
study my new legs and arms
onset of crepey spotted skin
my looming love of them
how I silence capitalism
my mother, 81, on love, life and death
we can have hope
that’s all we can have
and know the life we’ve lived
was a good one
I think we’ve all made the best
of what we’ve had together
I’m just grateful for what I’ve had
the most loving mother
and you children, my children
I wanted you to be where you are
that kind of life
that is you, isn’t it
when I think about Al
I’m five years older than he is
thinking I wish he had these five years
he’s such a good man
not like any man
the way he thinks and says things
the love I’ve had for him
is not like love I’ve had with anyone
I’m so grateful for him
I think he was sent to me
before the end of my life
that late call
I really think we were put together
by heavenly father
we have been so good for each other
I hate to say this
we don’t know
we live we die
we don’t know what the other side brings
if there’s anything at all
so there’s no use worrying about it now
it seems kinda impossible to me
that we end up together
but if it happens it will be a wonderful shock
if we could all just find out
about a week apart
that would be great
we could get together and have a big party
more than likely it’s not gonna be that way
but to hope for the best
we’ll be together again
I have Ravens
I have ravens who steal dull treasure,
line my nest with old concretions
I have ravens who stare you down,
make you drive around my carrion feast
I have ravens masked
as sad-eyed dogs, waiting for your palm
I have ravens full of rainbows,
nervous you will notice
I have ravens who sing love songs
to basil with tomatoes on back-up
I have ravens whose blood, snowmelt,
clears my stony mind
National Poetry Month begins… and NaPoWriMo!
While teaching in April always feels like transition in giving birth (I can’t do it, How can I go on, I’m so tired, Let me sleep), somehow National Poetry Month manages to be the midwife, reminding me to breathe, keep pushing, tune into the beautiful effort of living and bringing good things into the world.
So, here I am again, adding daily poetry writing to my to-do list, doing my damnedest to keep up with the NaPoWriMo goal of writing a poem a day. Here goes!
If you want to join this creative effort, click the button below for prompts if you need ‘em:
My Sister and Stepdad in the ICU
After checking Al’s blood sugar,
the handsome nurse left the room.
Half out of it, sagging
beneath the ventilator tube,
lower lip adrift, Al glanced at Kimmi
and raised his eyebrows.
She laughed, “I’m old enough
to be that guy’s mother!”
Which of course he knew,
weak as a kitten yet strong enough
to still give Kimmi
some good-natured shit,
their mutual love language.
thank you, sis, for the story
The Kind Doctor
A stream of young doctors come to talk
to us while my mother’s diabetic husband
begs for Pepsi, parched and fidgety on the bed.
They are trying to get to the bottom of his weakness,
slurring, drooping right lip, which come and go.
Despite my whispered hallway insistence
to emergency room nurses about my mother’s mind,
one doctor is rude, repeating. Most are kind.
The kindest one, the only Black man in the room,
observed by a serious, clipped attending,
exclaims Good Lord with informal flair when
he takes a seat and drops his pen, fishes it from his shoes,
admits, We are only human, we doctors, awkward, too
to put her at ease. He listens patiently
to the way she answers his direct questions
with long, innocent narrations that soften the truth
about her husband’s diet, protect her pride, stop clock time
with her vanity, her humanity. He gently interjects
Yes, ma’am, so kindly, as she repeats declarations of love
and admiration for Al, Allen, such a good, kind, intelligent man,
who was a school principal, who called her at midnight
all those years ago, her sweetheart, and when she is done,
the kind doctor repeats his diagnosis three different times,
in three different ways with careful explanations,
as if each one were the first, to her surprised, Oh!
No doctor has ever taken the time to explain that before.
And when my mother, crowned queen of long-term memory,
tells him she has always had a special sense, she can sense
when people are good, and he is truly good, she can tell
by how he really listens, and she’s grateful for him,
he says he is grateful she has trusted him with her husband’s care.
She says again, Some people just have a sense about people,
and he says, I believe that, too, and have thought a lot about it,
and stands, takes her hand, says he will come back
to talk with her about this very thing. Soon. We are all moved.
Al is moved to intensive care. The kind doctor doesn’t return.
My mother doesn’t remember him, her whisperer.
Walking the Burn is Born
Click the image below to order your copy! Thank you to all who made this day possible.
When I was Afraid to Publish It
I was alone in the car
resting in that silent hour it takes
to drive south
to buy chicken feed, broccoli and milk
when a girlfriend’s text
told me to listen to him and I did
grateful for apps and phones I normally hate
for their hold on my throat, but when
I heard Padraig’s voice, that tenderness
that willingness to linger over others’
profound minutiae, to savor sorrow
the glowing char of it, I grew the spine
to slip off my skin for this book
peel back muscles and nerves, say
look at these boney words
and I just knew Padraig would
have the guts, the heart to look, to say
what strong bones you have
and I wept there, alone
with Padraig, himself disembodied
zipping me back up like a father
a good friend sending me
into the rough world, book in hand
spine open, reaching for you
with immense gratitude to Pádraig Ó Tuama,
poet and host of Poetry Unbound