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Poetry by William Doreski
Sculpting the Dawn
Cereal smacks in a bowl.
Coffee smirks whirling in a cup.
I try to sculpt the dawn to fit
the slot in which I reside.
Hills buck like broncos. Brooks
shiver down the narrow seams
dividing vegetable kingdoms.
If I ask for toast will you burn
the bread so deeply the char
becomes the cooled lava scarring
the big island of Hawaii?
If I ask for juice will you drown
our unborn children in sobs
of freshly squeezed citrus?
Already the day has filled
its kangaroo-pouch with victims.
Already the village has opened
and shut, locked and unlocked
its many doors, wagging tongues.
The famous stained-glass windows
of Cram’s Episcopal church
sigh as imagery grows restless.
You don’t accept the distance
pouring over your garden but
even at dawn the purpose
of honeysuckle and primrose
refers to us in the past tense,
confirming the folds in the map.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His work has appeared in many journals. He has taught writing and literature at Emerson, Goddard, Boston University, and Keene State College. His new poetry collection is A Black River, A Dark Fall.
Get to know William by checking out our exclusive interview with him on the Orson’s Publishing blog.