The Bells

by Kell Connor

They do go silent.
I hear a higher
calling, dog
whistle deep
in my inner ear.
All clear? Not so.
Pavlov’s pup
upturns its dish, bares
three rows of teeth.
In dog daylight
I thrash with Cerberus
in the green green
grass until the field
of vision goes
glassy. I do go rabid
and spasm. Death,
I guess. Or something
even less. It’s worse
when the bells don’t toll.
“It’s widely known for
whom those jaws foam: Us.”
“Oh, hush. It’s not much,
but I’ll call the mouth
of hell our home.”

Kell Connor lives in Nebraska. Recent work appears in Big Lucks, The Puritan, Reality Beach, and Verse.