We know Mars now, her ferrous cheek
blushing in magnetic wind.
She carries no meat upon her back,
no flesh to speak of --
sand dunes, rust domes, contemplative
skies like Bengal eyes.
Reliable acreage, low-rent before invaders
escape from their own
scuttled planets.
Photogenic, beauty queen for eons,
low expectations,
interplanetary health
scare.
Failure to understand emotions,
we see only epidermis.
Probes are too expensive
for those who don’t know
science.
Copyright. John Dorroh.
John Dorroh has never caught a hummingbird or fallen into an active volcano. He's never turned down cake or pie and understands the power of bread. He wrote his first poem at the age of five with his mom's red lipstick on the bathroom wall. Fortunately he's evolved. His poems have appeared in about 85-90 journals, including Tilde, Burningword, Feral, Os Pressan, and Selcouth Station.
