By Kelli Simpson
I'll serve sunset for supper and not deny myself
dessert; blue sky sprinkled with stars and scooped
between two fingers.
I'll be nocturnal as a night owl, eyes
big as saucers to catch the spill
of your low light and find you
in the night grass; your shoulders, your hips,
the small of your back cool cradled by crushed clover
and Indian Blanket.
Dawn will break, but I'll mend it;
send it back; reverse the Earth's spin
and when the small hours loom large,
I'll eat you like the banquet you are;
sweet from flesh, marrow from bone,
spirit from breath.
Then we'll sleep through the heat of the day,
sated as satyrs, until the suns ripens,
and night falls again.
Kelli Simpson is a poet and former teacher based in Norman, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared in Lamplit Underground, Green Ink Poetry, One Art Poetry Journal, The MockingHeart Review, and elsewhere.
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