Baptize me with river, a creek if water’s an issue.
Let it trickle over Uncle Wheeler’s dead feet, his
ankles covered with hunting boots. He never looked
up beyond those vein-streaked cheeks, his misery
screwed tightly into a Mason jar. One Thanksgiving
morning he let me touch his big red dick. There were
no words, no invitation, just an awkward moment,
he with his sunglasses, me with enough curiosity
to kill my sister’s cat. It was over before it started.
As it should have been. And an hour later he passed me
the platter of turkey and asked dark meat or white?
He walked me to his truck, Aunt Sarah, sitting
in the front seat crying like a baby. Say good-bye
to me she said. The river turned to mud after that.

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About the Author

John Dorroh has never caught a hummingbird or fallen into an active volcano. He has however, baked bread with Austrian monks and drunk a healthy portion of their beer. Five of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Others have appeared in over 125 journals, including Feral, El Portal, River Heron, and Kissing Dynamite.

John Dorroh
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