poems by rachel kellum
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White Fragility: or, Why Jackhammers Can’t Get the Job Done
A year after initial installation, the Black Lives Matter mural was repainted
on the same street now repaved in fiberglass reinforced forever-concrete,
built to last, withstand centuries of traffic. Scholars called it performative.
Five years later, onlookers in long lines carried it off with both hands in heavy chunks,
the valuable ones emblazoned with yellow paint, this one part of a T,
this one from the upper humped back of the B. Podcasters agree: not performative.
Witnessing woke workers of the city carry off the pieces to their queen—Liberty,
quietly filling the earth with her brood—white deconstruction workers stashed chunks
in their MAGA stickered trucks, too, tickled to see that divisive message go.
After listening to This American Life’s episode Museum of Now
The Art Teacher Turns Greenhouse Teacher, or Why I Wake at 3 AM
I have dreamed of children’s stained-glass problems—
thick leaden seams, faint hatching wilding
into cross hatching, lopsided pinch pots thinning
and shy blending, afraid to saturate the page
with wide range and bold contrast
I have lost sleep on how to help them
find wisdom in the marriage
of their untried hands and sharp eyes
as though my life and their happiness
depends on the coordination of the senses
Now I dream of soil depth
and seeds, how to teach children
the art of pouring jewels of creation
into their sweaty palms, pinch
and release them into tiny trenches
and think metaphorically
of where to place them—plant companions,
mutual protectors—boldly thin crowded spouts
as if room to grow, green meals, more seeds
will absolutely save them
wind is trying
wind is trying
to touch everything
today, even me
in this light
drenched house
sliding open
low windows
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
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