Poems by William Doreski
How Myths Become Last night’s deluge furrowed ruts in our driveway deep enough to bury all our recent crimes. Although the season has collapsed and lies panting on its deathbed the garden enjoyed its soaking and is considering fresh new shoots to defy the promise of frost. We rise from the rubble of dreams to sort through a thousand errands and pick three or four to complete. Ignoring the ignorant gaze of our long-depleted sky-god, we step back into ourselves as if pulling up our socks. At first the rain seemed personal, a trickle of tiny whispers. Then it surged like an uproar of offended titans. We crouched in bed with unwritten memoirs rife with regret. When it stopped the moon peered through the window to inquire if we were all right. Now the new day lifts its skirts to show off its fresh pink linen. We should guard our speech until the sky-god hides behind a cloud. After last night’s hustle and bustle he might take advantage and drop to earth and try to peddle stories so firmly narrated anyone might swallow them, barbs and all.
Returning from / Returning to Nepal When I try to re-enter, the customs officer tells me I’m not wanted, never was wanted. He looks me up and down, his face pinched shut like a fortune cookie. The terminal sobs with greetings and cheerful talk as relatives and friends reconnect. No one awaits me. My carry-on gapes with horror. My passport flutters like a moth. I went to Nepal without insuring myself against the onset of massive peaks. Dashain occurred while I was there and I confess that I enjoyed it. The steep landscape reflected the mood. Government offices closed so tightly I couldn’t see through the many paned windows where vagrant shadows flocked and danced. Now I’m unwanted because I might have conversed with a yeti or may have contracted high altitude Buddhism, which succeeds because incurable. The customs officer warns me that if I return to Boston in this elevated state the mayor will close every bar by decree, causing me to perish of thirst. I’m so undesirable that politicians refuse my vote and any dog I pet will bite. The airport is a slab of concrete so thick that if I crawl under it no one will ever discover me. But the customs officer says no, I can’t pull the whole airport over me like a hand-made quilt. I’d better fly back to Nepal and cuddle all winter with yetis and absorb their anonymous calm.
The Roadkill Expression of Autumn Already the roadkill expression of autumn dangles above the supermarket at dusk. Pink flares in its gullet. Bruises ripple for a thousand miles. A month of summer remains, but the parked cars cringe with chill. We rarely shop late on Saturdays because the shelves need restocking and the clerks are eager to leave. Besides oozing colors, the dusk forms a washboard effect so rough it rattles our bones as we watch. Let’s get inside and stock up on bananas, oranges, apples, lettuce, spinach, arugula. We never buy meat here— the roasts too bloody, sausage writhing with shameful memories, hamburger still mooing with pain. We’re hoping no hurricane soils the forthcoming season. Trees bearing grudges want to crush us. The sky wants to solidify. We should be proud of the distance we’ve achieved, but somehow it sickens as well as flatters distinctions between spirit and self. We enter the market and wield a cart that groans with abuse. Later at home we’ll remember everything we didn’t purchase, but by then the dusk will relent and its wound will have closed in honor of our honest dismay.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Dogs Don’t Care (2022). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
