poems by rachel kellum
to comment ✒️ click on a title
White Woods
Gentle graupel in the aspen grove
where many trees have also fallen,
bark peeling, drunken leaning
on others, angles reminiscent
of the makeshift forts of youth.
Leo lost his collar on a branch, dodged
my effort to slide it over his face,
whitened with age, ID tag tinkling.
Except for a few sawed off limbs
that otherwise would have interfered
with the trail—one amputee looking oddly
like a gas mask in this time of Covid-19,
one letter off of making me think
of nineteen ravens on a road—
the whole wooden mess a testament
to this town’s peace with entropy,
its loving pact with benign neglect, to let
woods be woods without human
meddling. Lightly pelted from above,
the dogs jogged on, occasionally
looking up at sky, wondering, mouths
open, catching graupel. Our coats,
speckled white, became wet.
We walked on, admiring the creek,
lapping its song here and there.
Thunder rolled. Hank reined in
the tangled thread of his roaming
at my side. Lost in thoughts
of Hank-turned-Christo, weaving
the forest white with yarn spooling off
his black back, I also lost track of Leo.
Liverspotted with his usual fear
of thunder, he disappeared. I called
and called his name, whistled
our whistle to silence and empty trail
for too long. Maybe he was quivering
in a lump under some ponderosa
I had missed while dreaming aspen,
woven yarn, graupel. Five minutes
from the car, my phone rang
inside my pocket. It was Caroline.
“Leo’s here. He showed up shivering.
Lucy is consoling him.” And she was,
when I arrived, with her customary
sniffs and licks, full red-body wag.
He could have landed anywhere,
at any other home. We laughed
at the wonder of dogs, the miracle
of a nose threading space with hope
toward a friendly door from the deep
heart of woods and mountain thunder.
Mueller, Not Kerouac
City Lights Bookstore
I look for Jack on the shelves
Not as books, but air
(He's there)
15 February 2020
When I Think I’m at Peace
Coyote loves digging me.
I follow him to the boneyard
again and again. In the quiet
I caress the bleached skulls
of my favorite mistakes.
I remember eyes moving
in sockets, lips, tongues,
each one very hungry,
headquarters of whole
bodies I thought were mine.
Arms and legs, fingers, toes,
vertebrae, hips all mixed up
as one. Guts are long gone.
He sits at my feet, panting
proudly like a lab who just
dropped a fat, warm goose.
Good boy, I say. This humerus
is for you. He runs away.
Crestone Mosquitos
Thousands hover and crawl
all over the sliding door
like alien invaders
sniffing blood through glass.
Tomatoes are growing,
Kale and mixed greens.
I will let them go to seed,
held hostage in my home
by mosquitos
They gather in shadows
of rich foliage.
Armored in full sleeves
and long pants in the slow heat
of summer, I sweat, reach in
to gather blooms.
I wince at the whine a choir
of bloodlust.
I watch a newborn’s mother
slap his head. His first
mosquito bite, baptized by a splat
of his own new blood.
End of July, I can finally
walk my dogs without
mosquito net, with bare arms
and legs under stars.
The stars shine like the eyes
of mosquitos endlessly
swarming the night.
A Juniper/Piñon Forest Makes Its Case For Forgetting
Dead branches, unneedled
Sprung early and low—
Trees’ oldest fond mem’ries
Suck vigor, spark glow.
I am Handing Off My Children
I am handing off my children
to you. Yes, you.
Her burning lamps, fire hoses,
massive dogs, Deathly Hallows,
spring beauty, conch tattoo
His nose scratch, snowboard air,
peanut butter, Poe rib-quote, fractal dreams,
archaeologies of digital sound
His preschool tortilla recipe, flawless cookies,
sunset-from-the-stupa gaze, Mannaz ink,
poleless skis, dog whisperings
They have secrets you don’t know.
I can’t tell you. Earn them.