John Dorroh
You Ought to Know My Face by Now
It’s an inch and a half between the inside corners of my eyes,
and three from the tip of my nose to the bottom of my chin.
The diameter of my mouth is that of a jumbo garden hose,
rather a small kisser for a man who makes such noise.
My hairline receded two inches in the time it takes
to read Ulysses 100 times. Sunlight reflects
off my forehead like a potato wrapped in foil,
a beacon of hope in stormy weather, the poster child
for managed fragility. Images in your rearview mirror
may appear larger than they are.
I share genes with a chameleon: Hazel eyes when I wear
green shirts, brown when I tell you lies. If eyes are the windows
to the soul, I must be dying in boiling water.
My head fits neatly into a square-foot box, but don’t forget
to punch some breathing holes so I won’t suffocate.
My face is one-sixth of a cube. It announces itself
so that you will never forget. Roll it like a die,
see what number comes up. You should have every inch
of it memorized by now.
On Opening a Jar of Vlasic Pickles
I’m good at opening jars for those who seem to find them glued
shut, tight like mouths in a fire. It’s not a particularly strong grip,
more of the way I hold my lips, such grimace, a parfait of emotions
all bottled up, squeezed like toothpaste from the bottom of the
tube. I tap it on the rim of the lid with the dull side of a huge butcher
knife, cascades of warm water under the tap. Sooner or later,
it gives way.
This is one technique to reach a destination. This is how I do it
on stormy days. I don’t ever use a flashlight because the batteries
are always dead. I plunge forward in the dark, unafraid – perhaps
a bit anxious – and certainly not nimble. Those days are long gone.
John Dorroh travels as often as possible. He inevitably ends up in other peoples’ kitchens exchanging culinary tidbits and telling tall tales. Once he baked bread with Austrian monks and drank a healthy portion of their beer. Six of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Others have appeared in over 100 journals, including Feral, North of Oxford, River Heron, Wisconsin Review, Kissing Dynamite, and El Portal. He had two chapbooks published in 2022. He lives in rural Illinois, USA, near St. Louis.
