In a Dream Where You Have One Eye
they told you this would become your new normal
but not that it would change your dreams
birds with one wing
a beautiful girl with a lopsided head
anything to make yourself feel average
half as much rain
twice as much love
for little things
big noises
that unfold into minor tragedies
you listen to the sound of thunder
while sitting on the toilet half asleep
you imagine a childhood that seemed almost mundane
but it all led you here
where you realize
that you don’t have a flashlight
or anything to put out a fire
you start coughing
& reach for a glass of water
you remember your grandmother had rose bushes
you search for her
in the storm you imagine every night
cool air running its fingers along your skin
the sun always hiding
half of its face under a warm pillow
never offering a torch in the darkness
so you don’t even blink
you don’t want to miss anything.
The Dead Sea is on Life Support
& all i can write about is cancer
especially after 10 pm
when the earth shakes
& my lips taste like salt
& worry
when all i can think about
is how you & i are just god’s bowling trophies
tossed aside into the dusky basements of heaven
where it’s all sink or swim
but rarely has anything to do with natural causes
where we press leaves
into any high school yearbook
that will have us
as we close our eyes
& drown every night
our limbs paddling through
unnatural bodies of water
where we wash up in dreams
of an invisible ocean
where we’ll never touch bottom
in a sea of stolen memories.
Poem for David M.Taylor
all across campus
grown men blow leaves
from one side of the pavement to another
men with families
who don’t care
whether they’re oak
maple
or elm
as long as there
are health benefits
at the end of the day
& you joke
that every time i sneeze
another poem comes out
but i’ve sneezed three times
in the last hour
& all i can do is shake
while reading about an actor
who died of cancer at 53
while i watch a hummingbird fly away
& listen to stray gunshots
coming from the woods
but that only makes up
about half a poem at most
it certainly isn’t music
on a cold morning
i wipe my nose
on my shirt sleeve
like a child
who has never had to blow leaves
only love them
& there are still no words
as i wave my arms up & down
like a dying bird
without ever once
reaching for a pen.
John Dorsey is the former Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Which Way to the River: Selected Poems: 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020), Sundown at the Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022, and Pocatello Wildflower, (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2023). He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.
