by John Dorroh
As if a Crocus Wasn’t Enough, or Hold Me While I Write
You open your blouse to show me the scars,
the bones underneath your pale skin, popping
to the surface like sparrow breath. Guide my finger
across the jagged edge of a furious pink ridge,
your breath warm like owl’s blood.
I stoop to pull up first crocus blooms,
dipping down into the snow like the oar of a boat paddle,
like a baker folding cake batter, clipping the stems
of tiny white jewels with jagged
fingernails. Too tiny for the smallest vase, we place them
on the kitchen table, wondering what we should do. That
is always an issue. This is only part of your story, the chapter
where you tell Death to go his way; that you are finished
building bridges, that you haven’t visited Tuscany, that you
have other plans for how you’ll make a final
exit. There are no approximations for the value of dead skin
and tears that have seeped into our bed sheets, nor guidelines
for writing the next chapter of our novels. I drive you
to the river’s edge and hold your heart as you wade into caramel
waters, waiting for the next sign for direction, knowing that when
I am out of air, when I have taken my last sticky breath,
that will be all the prompts that you will ever need.
John Dorroh says that writing poetry is, and always has been, his way of dealing with emotion. “It’s my way to work through grief, sadness, the feeling of isolation during the pandemic, and yes, even joy. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without it.” He is humbled and honored each and every time that an editor accepts a piece of his work. His poetry has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, Selcouth Station, Blue Moon Literary & Arts Review, El Portal and many others. He also has occasional success with short fiction and humorous rants.