by John Dorroh
MRI
Here I am
wrapped tight
in the snug of a machine,
did you say you loved me?
A hug, yellow and white.
Your breath on my face,
my panic licking like a frayed tongue.
I name myself mountain, snow
the twin black squirrels
that spiral through the pine.
If nothing else, if nothing else
a continuum.
Harsh mechanical cries
are my own, witness me.
Carry me, a river of snow melt
through twenty minutes, half an hour
surfacing, gripping my daughters.
How did it feel to be pregnant?
Rocks, rocks, rocks.
To squash my body smaller
than this tunnel.
Susannah Violette, a Pushcart Prize nominee, has had poems placed or commended in the Plough Prize, Westival International Poetry Prize, the Frogmore poetry prize, Coast to Coast to Coast Pamphlet Competition and appeared in various publications worldwide most recently; Bloody Amazing, Pale Fire (anthology of contemporary writing on the moon), For the Silent (anthology supporting the work of the LACS), Blue Nib, Cordite, Finished Creatures, Channel and Strix.
John Dorroh is too easily distracted from things that matter. He seems to thrive best in quiet places with few people who, for the most part, talk too much. ‘I asked a friend if she’d seen the strange and beautiful clouds yesterday, and she looked at me as if I might be bonkers.’ Perhaps the pandemic has caused him to pay attention to the natural world. He’s a Southerner living in the Midwest where you can clearly see weather fronts coming in. He is a frequent contributor to Feral and many other journals. His cell phone photography once paid for a nice meal at a sushi restaurant.