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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

Be sure to check out our exclusive interview with William on the Orson’s Publishing blog.