poems by rachel kellum
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preparing our mother’s house for sale
my sister gathers
her precious memories
to adorn a life
in assisted living
finds
leaves of folded tissues
hoarded in drawers
between scrawled notes
to herself going back years
don’t forget, she wrote
April and May Readings
These word-loving wonderful places have kindly invited me to read from my new book in celebration of National Poetry Month.
Change of Date:
The Baca Grande Library reading has been postponed to Saturday, May 10, 12 pm
I hope you can make it!
fed by the ash
have you noticed
when something burns down—
a city, a marriage, a math lesson, a minute—
some tiny green thing shoots up
fed by the ash
look for it
walking the usual route
finally
without a phone
every sandy step softens
like a sigh
closer to her feet
pinon trees like arms
of friends
reach to her
cool green hands
taken into hers
that mossy boulder a seat
even the dog sits still
faces west
to take in the tangerine dusk
whimpers
when it is time to go
crappy birthday to you
I started with happy
but Dorell commandeered
the song to crappy
lying in bed, singing
into my phone
to my sister
to her laughter
after our exhausted mother
passed out
hit her forehead
on the vanity in the small bathroom
off the kitchen—
goose egg
bruised eye socket
no fracture, the doc said—
a slightly better gift
than Al’s heart attack
last time
for Kimmi
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