poems by rachel kellum
to comment ✒️ click on a title
Circumstances
The doc and I talk
Rush—a shared love of prog rock.
Needle in his hand,
he fashions a scar,
thread closing the eye opened
on my neck, now lashed.
Stitches stagger, leap
in tense, strict asymmetry,
a lone boy dancing
near teen me, singing,
hunched over an inner sleeve,
Closer to the Heart.
With thanks to Dr. J.S. for being human with me on a tough day
Note to non-nerds: The title and last line of this poem are Rush songs I found intriguing as a teenage girl trying to make sense of the world. I know people love to make fun of Rush—their intellectualism and supposedly soulless musical precision, but they were my obsession, my introduction to poetry, a heady, earnest alternative to the shitty glam metal of the 80s my friends loved. I dare you, sweetheart, to listen to their entire catalogue, to watch documentaries of their incredible decades together, and see if you’re still too cool.
Shared Fruits
Too busy to net the cherry on time
or repair the hole in the netted plum,
too relaxed about generous apple trees—
we married in the fall of the year
that summer squirrels and chipmunks—
prolific after last year’s bumper of pinyon nuts—
celebrated by stripping and storing,
gluttonously feasting on every last fruit.
Wedding Owl
Exiting our wedding trail
we stood, golden, awaiting friends,
khatas draped like gentle snowy hills
over our shoulders.
Greeting us with hugs and bright eyes,
several exclaimed, “Before
the ceremony, a great horned owl
sat in this juniper near the trailhead,
swooped over us starting up the path!”
We laughed in disbelief, shook our heads.
They heard it before they saw it.
I thought, My mother’s mother. My dead sister.
Sage, my daughter, saw it too, framed
by a forked branch, perched there, who-ing.
Owl tattooed on her right foot, child on hip,
she pronounced, “The owl of our maternal line.
Grandma made it after all.” Of course.
My mother, still alive, her memory adrift,
silent night owl searching, searching
the yellow woods, her daughter’s day.
No photo as auspicious proof.
Just the word of women, our inner who.
Last Us-ie
In this photo
this us-ie
my face echoes
your shapes and shades
curved long chin
soft blue, bent-almond eyes
the hair, oh the hair
our brown armor
glinting copper
in the brightest light
curled long and hiding
crow’s feet
and full cheeks.
Since then, your hair
has thinned
to tufts across your skull.
You refuse to trim
long strands still flowing
down your back
tenacious trickle of pride
vestige of easy beauty
you tuck
into your wig
the one your daughter
wore in her casket
before we tugged it off
to touch the velvet
of her head one last time.
Mom, let me run
my palm
over your stubborn
wispy crown—
this new wisdom
the you of you—the way
my ears gulp stories
you repeat over and over
before they too
fall away from you.
Grease
I couldn’t recall the name
of the yellowbreasted
blackwinged
orangeheaded bird
surprisingly still lingering
in mid July
Northern… Flicker… no
wide beak…which species…
and now
Western Tanager, just now
my brain, that hunk
of flesh
brought your name back to me
like suet to an empty basket
my attention
having pecked at leftover
grease for two days
Poets and Minstrels Radio features Walking the Burn
My brilliant friend Barbara Ford is not only a gifted poet but also a poetry DJ on our local radio station, KHEN 106.9. I was honored to join her on July 10th to take turns reading poems from my new book on her show Poets and Minstrels. Enjoy, friends.
Fish Fry
Before I found her curled
like a giant muscular leaf
the old goldfish—flat orange
scales the size of fingernails
no longer a shifting glow
in the murky depth—
lay eggs in the lily pot
submerged like a watery nest
still, hovering, I feared, near death.
The huge male Shubunkin, orange and black
spotted, lay there too over the pot
and worry tested the water
chemistry, perfectly fine.
Faith in science unshaken
I went about my terrestrial days
until the morning I found their fry
funny name for a hatch
of tiny goldfish, more like mosquito larvae
or sea monkeys than fish
already flown the lily pot in open water.
I photographed them like a new grandmother.
Joy quickly rotted by next day’s discovery
their mother newly dead-eyed
stiff, already putting off a cloud
of particles, her babes
swimming there in the fog
filtering her death through tiny gills.
Next morning, already wary
of their father flicking angrily around
the pond like a prowling shark
looking for his mate, desperately alone
and hungry, they retreated to the roots
of aquatic lettuces, lacy floating foliage
of water celery drifting around
island planters, a forest in which
to hide, slowly outgrow, the size
of their father’s mouth.
because Hildegard, 20, outlived their childhood
every Tuesday morning
or every other
sifting through her
kitty litter
still my children’s mother
(never quite a cat lover)
Flying United
Scrolling United’s movie and tv offerings
Nickel Boys, Moana, Wicked, Girls will be Girls, SNL
in the middle seat, I decide against saucier options—
Jonathan Van Ness’ Fun and Slutty, their coy smile
glowing over bare shoulders and sequin gown—
because I don’t know my neighbors, don’t want
to ruffle the window woman, hard faced, possibly
MAGA. Napping. No flight fistfight today, thanks.
I go for something innocent, unthreatening—
Moana 2—which for all I know might set her off
on an inner tirade against brown people taking over
children’s media. Uniting islands. Edgy after all. Fine.
So be it. The aisle woman reaches into her bag
pulls out a colorful hardback book and a journal
covered in Frida Kahlo, child faced, hovering
over a rib cage. I know instantly I love her
this woman, who, it turns out, was once a journalist
a teacher of journalism, who is reading a book
full of essays and writing prompts compiled
by Suleika, Jon Batiste’s wife, whom I adore.
Brief teaching/writing histories shared
I sit here scribbling beside her, new sister
gift from the universe’s good graces
Dorell might attribute to my recent time on the cushion
after a year hiatus from sitting practice. As though
resting myself open, letting go of my busy story
the story starts writing love into itself, effortless.
My new friend sits beside me. We whisper, lean in
love conspirators, mourn our country’s waning humanity
cuts to the arts, attacks on journalism and anyone
not straight and white, kidnappings, denial of due process
slashing health care, climate protection and rights.
We take hope in finding each other, talking our ears off,
as men would say, sharing our work in this world:
her support of immigrant families’ needs and literacy
my teaching children how to make art and grow food—
our school greenhouse dome partner to Woody’s guitar
ironically inscribed with a pacifist’s threat:
This Machine Kills Fascists. When the window woman
finally wakes, who knows how much she has overheard.
In a cigarette-ravaged voice she says she is going
on a cruise to Alaska with friends, which somehow
confirms my worst suspicion, and explains the husband
of her friend’s son arranged the whole thing.
It would seem nothing is ever as it seems.
Looking out the window on her first Seattle descent,
she observes, “There’s so much water.” Yes, yes,
we agree. The Salish Sea. But that is another story.
for Jeanne Jones Manzer