poems by rachel kellum
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Small and Home
Thrill stirring particles,
gods in fat sky wonder.
(Our happy owl murmurs
of tiny waters and window eyes.)
When our wild family plunges
night, we blossom immense.
Sing yes, we sob, foreverly,
terrifyingly small and home.
2013
Chicken Literal
I am a chicken
With its head cut off.
Watch me bleed.
Don’t bother throwing seeds
Down my neck.
I’m beyond eating.
Now I’m all about
Feet and fleeing.
Flopping useless wings,
Staining feathers
Really nothing more
Than a broken promise
From my broken
Shelled beginning.
Laughing children
Chase me around the yard
Until I fall in the weeds.
I watch them
With my beady eyes
From the sticky block.
The hatchet sun, raised,
For years, aiming.
Take it from me:
You won’t see it drop.
2013
Even Then She Knew
“I no monkey! I balloon!” ~Sage Magdelene, age two
My sweet monkey.
My orange balloon.
She blazes with summer
Wind and yellow truth.
Her red wings roar.
2013
My Mothers Wait For Their Belated Mother’s Day Poem
Charlotte to Charlotte says,
“Watch. This week she will buy seed bread
and do five loads of laundry instead.”
Laura Matilda and Irene Genevieve know:
“But after straightening two sofa pillows,
her words will grow like dust on the piano.”
Margaret Madeline whispers to Wanda Margaret,
“But first she will nibble dark chocolate
hidden in the kitchen towel drawer, I bet.”
Folded, uncluttered, sweet, alone, the poem comes.
The mothers hum two hundred years of grief-love
one month before my daughter, with her name, leaves home.
2013
Spectral Bodies
Somewhere between
Ape and alien we spin
Back to back, awkward
Spindly circle of arms.
We dance the blind axle
Of space. It has no body.
We turn seeking the other
With the oldest eyes
We can muster, primate,
Gape-mouthed with sight.
Our ancient brows jut
Wonder, lean far back
To touch. Before losing
Whatever footing spinning
Allows, our crowns
Make a bridge. A body
Crosses—light, love, dark—
Bigger than we are.
It doesn’t need legs
To travel very, very far.
2013
Calculating a New Vocabulary of Joy
We multiply families of ravens,
stun words in cool gusts,
then lift, winged heat. I ramble
mathematically, waiting for a language,
croaking, ready to give up everything tertiary.
What primal number,
what rough cut square footage
expresses itself in our shared gaze?
What equals one mountain plus one man plus one woman
plus three habaneros sliced thinly, coughing steam,
sex and gasoline, gratitude dividing
into soft apologies to one tree for sinking nails
to hold prayer flags and all sentient beings?
How do two people become
one home in a flash? Quite simply.
The sky calculates it all like this:
One crisp ponderosa accepts you. I notice.
We sniff its neck. The moon squints
through its 2 am limbs upon our tangled sleep.
One cabin, our larger body, stirs
under twenty fingers. Its engine spills and fumes.
One decomposing granite hallway
takes our four-legged gait like seed,
grunts us new. Like this, teeth smiling.
We might be two parallel streams and the earth
is giving way between.
We can’t account rationally for the speed
of our lives’ glorious destruction
or the volume of water tearing through.
The solution is in the weep, the wound,
the rocky crack. Guess how
the clever juniper grew where it grew.
2013
Lady Tiresias Finally Speaks
Inaccessible
Dark secrets dilate me, winged.
Shhh. The flock’s due west.
2013