Bio Note: I am John Dorroh, writer, former high school science teacher turned poet. I have never fallen into an active volcano, nor have I ever caught a hummingbird. However, I've baked bread with monks in Salzburg and drunk my share of their home brew. Two of my poems were nominated for Best of the Net and others have appeared in journals such as Feral, North Dakota Quarterly, and Selcouth Station.
Still Grieving for My Dog
I could live in a gallery, pull red corpuscles off the faces of portraits, hoping to find my dog in the asparagus patch behind my house. I need the safety of walls and dried saliva and well-worn collars with tiny white bones. You won’t understand my agony until Africa is a mere raindrop on the wall of some benefactor who flinches when my pregnant neighbor dubs him cartographer. They all thrive from raping artifacts, from buried treasures, absorbing aromas with 300 million olfactory receptors, the DNA, amino acids in the sarcophagi of long-dead pharaohs, mummified like modern monsters, Frankenstein and the Werewolf who roam the foggy English moors for lung and heart. Egyptians favored cats who didn’t seem to care about anybody but themselves. They eat dead bodies, lick their whiskers and strut tail-up into genetic history. Dogs, on the other hand, do the dirty work for all of us who enter the gallery and wait patiently for our souls to cross the bridge.
©2021 John Dorroh
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell her or him. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL