poems by rachel kellum
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Net Fishing
You are no longer teetering over the abyss.
Instead, you are fishing it, laughing skiffer
holding a net between the large boat
of the body who birthed you and yourself
behind the wheel, parallel to shore, to her,
moving slowly, rejoicing in every netted fish
packed with perfect pink flesh, pulsing,
salty with electricity, with nutritious death,
that sliver of missed bone we must swallow
chased by bread when we can’t cough it up.
Wedding When We Are Old
Instead of wincing at withering
I offer my shifting beauty
to one deep and wide enough
to hold, to love me old.
May I trust his seaward vow.
May we outlove each other.
Selling Poetry
I spend the money
I earned selling my poetry book,
my performance, my writing prompts.
I pump poems into my gas tank,
buy a friend a pint of poem,
feed poems to my lover for brunch,
pour cream into my poem
and honey, and sip.
after the online auction, where they were not offered
my mother’s favorites
of my high school
and college
artwork
are rotting
in a land fill
in central Illinois
beating me to it
Thinning Beets on Summer Solstice
It is right to pluck
small sprouts you planted by seed
when fear over-sowed.
See how seedlings crowd
hoard space, soil, light, and water
stunt one another.
It is not failure
not a waste to thin the rows.
Give roots room to grow.
Not one life is lost.
Stuff the sprouts, right then, into
your animal mouth.
Tender abundance!
Feed them to Love, your coven.
Throw what’s left to birds.
Away from Here
Once you return from urban anonymity
that weightless, faceless flight
strip the bed, wash its clothes
push the broom across the floor
feed two weeks of dust to woods outside your door
empty a suitcase into little rooms
grateful your body still can move to perform
such small chores and you have joyful work to do
here, at home, in a minute mountain town
where trios of children yell hello and wave as you drive by
and high school girls nod and smile, call you
by your given name as you walk the dairy aisle
and the cashier offers updates on her son
the quiet, dark hearted one you took under your wing
brilliant artist, shy guitarist, budding engineer
now a man who—like younger you, like you foretold
when both your hearts were sinking in that school
—found himself, found his people, found his will to be
wild haired, heartily embodied, away from home.
For L.M.
Instructions for Shining
Sit still in any pose with a mind
for your body’s preferences and needs.
Notice where gravity presses against you.
Disappear just above it.
Find open silence holding the hum
of the electric heater,
the oven fan cooling after biscuits.
Silence doesn’t fight noise.
It is a mother with the world
squirming on its lap.
Feel your chest soften—
butter melting, sun breaking open
above the peak, a crumb at a time
before whole radiance.
How long can you shine on everything,
everything, before you shift
to pick up the sock, the pen?
late Februrary 2026
two Tacoma haiku
if you pretend well
traffic is ocean hiss, gull
wave crash, moaning whale
webs glisten between
towers of morning roses
limber avenues