poems by rachel kellum
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Water Speaks
I don’t know what I am
moving this way. I can’t
see myself. I know
myself by what contains
me. Shifting shores, stones
whose colors I have
no names for. If you
are not holding on
to anything, I can take
you with me. I know
myself this way, too,
by the shape I make
around you, woman
wishing you were more
like me, a bit more
free. This freedom is
too big for you. You
tremble to lose
your name, to spread
and sink so deep,
unseen, to lift
and blur so wide
you want to name yourself
a cloud, write vague
poems about rain
and floods, and living
mud. No, I’m sure
as rain and mud my way
is not for you. Accept
this human shape
of me, the only way
I know to speak.
2012
slow hold
the gentle
plains of your body lay
unconstrained by seams
beneath slow palms. slow
as they could go.
eyes I knew, even
in shadow: your mother’s
blue kindness. (was she
also a sharer of spinach
and rice?) silver
caravan, Cache La Poudre
could not contain the crash
of us, or our condensation,
clouds born of pulsing
breath and skin blushing
windows. finally, out in
the air, Hold raised her head.
Owl asked questions. we smiled
inches from the beds of
our lips, faces reflecting
suns of bare teeth
hiding tongues.
2008-20012
Rachel on Poets’ Co-op TV
Catch a clip of Rachel's April 2012 performance on Poets' Co-op TV
No metaphors for
Say hello to the great shining
embroidered with your fleshy personality.
(The shining may be a clear hole, but if that scares you
think instead a rimless, bowlless, friendly bowl.)
I pull at our tight threads with poems.
Unraveling, I talk too much.
I’m paid to tell you what I know, but there are holes
in knowing funneling toward the shining hole,
and you fall through. I can’t catch you.
You can’t catch me.
We think our words are handholds,
or that our hands are words, but they are only bumps
stalling speed so fast it’s empty, so vast
even the sky falls through.
2012
Where Words Wait
When I am nearly quiet
and perfect words appear,
silence is more perfect.
I tuck the precious phrase
behind my ear like windy hair,
or gum to save for later chewing.
I promise words a quick return.
My most important work requires
such wild undoing: an empty mouth.
2012
The Work of Dogs
Like my young pup
I can’t resist nosing dead starlings
in the back yard of my heart.
I snatch up every one
in my well-fed jaws and dart.
Yell for me all you want.
I’ll come back when I’m done.
2012
Clean Haiku
After deep cleaning
the same old house for ten years
it starts cleaning you.
2012
Hopeful Ruin
Looking for what is holy in my aversion,
I close my eyes to take in the burning
of my inner bureaucracy, plastic hallways
puddling in a maze. I leap through oxygen
of a most stubborn desire—the fuel
of my decade-long moment of hopeful ruin.
2012
Catch and Release
We wait for it
The writhing hatch to flow
from fresh mouths
Can’t resist
the fleck, wet wings
quilting light
Hit quick
Hunger numbs
the lip to the nick
Thrill the swim
against our own mouth
and every known current
Pulled by unseen line
into someone’s sight, the pool
of a chest, the net
We pray for wet hands
To be inexplicably held
and slide away unscathed
No hand-shaped cloud
tattooed upon
the skin’s egress
2012
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