My head would fit into a packing box,
I just know it would, because I’ve tried it
in a dream and it fit just fine. My feet would fit
into a large pair of lumberjack gloves and my tongue
into a cordial glass just like the kind my grandma
had but said she never used. My arms would fit inside
the body of a fox, my thumb poking out of its mouth
like some sort of hitchhiker’s sign. My eyes would fit
inside your liver where I could see the toxins being
filtered from your blood. My elbows would fit
into a kangaroo’s pouch and my hands into yours.
It will be a tight fit, but that’s okay with me as long
as I can go to sleep with the ceiling fan on the middle
setting so I can sleep like a fat baby on codeine.
All Rights. John Dorroh.
John Dorroh has never had to use a defibrillator, nor has he fallen into an active volcano. He did manage to bake bread with Austrian monks & consume a healthy portion of their beer. Two of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Others have appeared in journals such as Feral, Burningword, Tilde, North Dakota Quarterly, Pinyon, Mono, and Selcouth Station. His first chapbook, “Swim at Your Own Risk,” was released in March, 2022. A second one is in the make.
