poems by rachel kellum
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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
above a storm
audiobook in my ears:
the clouds just below me
flight attendant’s voice:
the clouds below the clouds below me, draped over peaks
a kar a me mantra:
the vapor layer below that voice
my hope:
the plane’s shadow below the mantra, tiny on a blanket of clouds,
enlarging as we descend through grey mist
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