Two Poems by John Dorroh
“Liberation”
When a full orange moon shakes bats from its belly,
when the sky splits open like a busted suture
and pink babies fall into the cumulus cloud bank
above the field of zinnias behind your mother’s house,
you know it’s time to surrender. Give in to your dreams.
Let their swan necks dip into the curve of your back.
Go under the cherry bed and pick up the pills
that the dog will eat if you don’t. Roll up the rubber bands
in the palms of your hand. Find the lost lips of your first lover
that got tucked away somewhere in your rib cage
and pull them out by their teeth. Let them decide
which way they need to move. Let them fly away
or ooze down your arms into your shoes.
That’s all they ever wanted.
“A Speckled Blueprint for the Son I Thought I’d Have”
Look at you go, racing your engine like Mario Andretti,
too late for the Fall Dance but you go anyway. I love that
about you. Determined to make hay while the sun peeks
through the low-hanging clouds. I say park your truck
and take a walk through the field. Observe what the squirrels
are doing – their frenzied pace, their packed cheeks – they
know about winter. Enter the old red barn with reverence.
It’s older than me and can teach you things that I missed.
Scoop up a handful of hay and stuff it into your shirt pocket
so that its scratch will remind you to treat complacency
as a hindrance. Sit on a hay bale. You have time.
If you’re lucky, you’ll see bats hung upside down high up
in the loft. They know things that we should. As you near the bank
of Miller’s Creek, feel the grass and weeds crunch like Shredded Wheat
beneath your feet. Stick your hand into the cool water. You might see
your reflection. Perhaps you will find some red berries on a holly bush
or a jay’s fallen nest. Soak it all in. Reflect and feel the muscles
in your neck and shoulders relax. If you hear an owl hoot, you
will feel that you’ve won a prize. Pick up your pace if you like.
The Dance will continue into the night. I hope you’ll see it
in a different light.
John Dorroh has never fallen into an active volcano, nor has he ever caught a hummingbird. He did, however, bake bread with Austrian monks and drink a healthy portion of their beer. Six of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Hundreds of others appeared in over 125 journals such as Feral, River Heron, Kissing Dynamite, North Dakota Quarterly, and Lunch Ticket. He makes his home in southwest Illinois not far from St. Louis.
