by John Dorroh
Please understand that I know what I saw: metallic dragonflies dancing like tiny ballerinas on the
picnic table, the end closest to the wormwood that spills out of the container like witch hair,
silvery and brittle, begging for moisture. Mardi gras colors, scales on wings stacked like shingles
on a roof. Delicate yet aggressive, their compound eyes a thousand micro ball bearings. Seeing
everything all at once. Omnipotent. Class Odonata means nothing to a six-year-old. Scientists
begging for more not less. They no longer speak to insects in code. The insects recognize our
weaknesses, the inability to communicate complex behaviors such as love, the affinity for
avarice and war. That is the thing that kills us every time. There is no memory of first rides on
bright red bicycles or cashing in S&H Green Stamps at a local redemption center. Where did they
go? Why this disdain for science and an affinity for Round-up? Dancing has become obsolete.
The art of questioning is dead.
John Dorroh likes to travel. He often ends up in other peoples’ kitchens sharing culinary tidbits and tall tales. “Learning about cultures begins with the food,” he asserts. Six of his poems were nominated for Best of the net. Hundreds of others appeared in journals such as Feral, River Heron, Burningword, Kissing Dynamite, and North Dakota Quarterly. Once he was awarded Editors Choice Award for a regional journal and received enough money for a sushi dinner for two.