kelli simpson

Dog Days

I spend hours
roaming the stubbled hayfields,
catching grasshoppers,
and feeding them to the cats.
I’ve been told that eating too many will burn them up inside,
but I don’t believe it.
The cats don’t seem to believe it, either.

It’s so hot you can hear it.

There’s always a cool spot
in the mud at the edge of the pond,
but you have to crawl under
the willow tree to get there.
I go in slow and watch for water moccasins
curled in the branches above.

I’ve faced more fearsome monsters.

Sunset spreads like a bruise
across the sky.
The tin roof of the barn,
still warm to the touch,
bears my weight and holds my secrets.
I’m the highest point in the emptiness.

And, the stillness is so vast that I don’t make a ripple.


The roses that you brought this morning
smelled like dog piss
and wilted before noon.
That, and you tracked a mess
of strange dirt all over my kitchen floor.

My horoscope said that you was a waste
of my powerful carnal energies.

But, what can I say?
I love a nice pair of shoes.

Kelli Simpson is an Oklahoma poet and writer. She lives with her husband, Robert, her daughter, Ashli, and a rapidly growing collection of reptiles. More of her work can be found at Another Damn Poetry Blog.