poems by rachel kellum

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2025 Rachel Kellum 2025 Rachel Kellum

autumn wedding planning

standing by our heart shaped pond

where we have shivered

up to shoulders

in snowmelt, palms up

in supplication to stillness

silence and spacious suffering,

I imagine where we’ll stand,

where our brother will pronounce

our union— our friends

perched on that log and that one,

or leaning backs against aspen trees

waving their yellow hands

over all our heads in blessing

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2025 Rachel Kellum 2025 Rachel Kellum

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

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2025 Rachel Kellum 2025 Rachel Kellum

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!

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2025 Rachel Kellum 2025 Rachel Kellum

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

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2025 Rachel Kellum 2025 Rachel Kellum

her home

an old woman can beg

her god for her man to live

and lose her house

to lie beside him in a new bed

in a small room

an entire earned life shed

down to the warm center

of home

her hand on his chest

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2025 Rachel Kellum 2025 Rachel Kellum

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

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2025 Rachel Kellum 2025 Rachel Kellum

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

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2025 Rachel Kellum 2025 Rachel Kellum

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

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