Kelli Simpson

Vivipary

Gone too ripe,
the tomato's alive
with tendrils curling
out from inside
where seeking seeds,
eager for earth
have germinated;
vivipary,
live birth.
It happens
when seeds still enclosed
deep in the fruit
sprout roots of their own
that grow
to press up against
the skin of the mother
till the mother's skin splits.
 

Turf

The blue jay has the biggest mouth;
the mockingbirds have numbers,
but the wrens are surprisingly bold
in the battle for the mulberry tree.
The doves, all downy breasts and snap
slender necks, coo,
pretty and pacifist,
from the grape vines' leafy shade.
I'm a war reporter, embedded
in the backyard, scribbling
never-to-be-read notes; the sneak
attacks of the squirrel; the terrain won
and lost; the song taunts
for peace with honor
and exclusive rights to worm.
This morning, the mockingbirds hold firm
and force the wrens to fall back to regroup.
The roof is alive
with wings in retreat.
The defeated jay in the Bradford Pear
screams threats
I can't repeat.

Sword at My Side

 I sleep with a sword at my side,
always ready
to spring; to swing; to thrust;
to parry.
A cool cloth for your
forehead.
A warm, gentle hand
on the small of your back.
A whispered baby are you
all right when we both know
that you're not.
Powerless, puny,
I parry and thrust;
swing and shield;
succor and suffer
the cancer
that caught us both sleeping
in winter and poisoned spring.
I dream of cells dividing.
I pray for cells dying.
I sleep with my sword at my side.
I wake in the small hours
swinging.

Kelli Simpson is the winner of the 2021 Poetry Super Highway poetry contest. A mother, poet, and former teacher, she makes her home in Norman, Oklahoma.