My mother and father made smoke in the kitchen over hot pots and pans, over hot water and oil, over time, over each other’s bellies. They danced in front of the oven until fire shot from their feet; showed us how love might look at the end of a long work day.
It was more than sustenance, the manner in which they made time for feeding us, how they taught us to squeeze art from a biscuit. They never advertised or led us to the table with a noose around our necks to eat casseroles, Swiss steak, and shrimp scampi; never demanded that we eat everything on the plate. Our knives and forks fashioned their own dances, our tiny fingers wrapped around their metallic waists, hoping and praying that sparks would jump from the plates, into our mouths, down through our legs, onto the kitchen floor.
John Dorroh travels, cooks, plays racquet sports, bikes, and digs in the dirt. He teaches science to anyone who is willing to become engaged with rocks, stars, furry creatures, and water. His poetry has appeared in about 75 journals, including North Dakota Quarterly, Tuck, Red Fez, Bindweed, Message in a Bottle, Setu, and Selcouth Station. He also writes short fiction and the occasional rant.
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