by William Doreski
Leaving the corpse in the road,
I back up to the corner
where dream and waking converge.
My dresser stands there in the weeds.
One drawer lolls open, offering
a tongue-full of T-shirts and socks.
I exit the car and close the drawer
as snow flurries mist the view,
concealing the accident scene.
But a window forms in the snowfall.
Through it I see that the dead man
is only a pine bough snapped
by wind discolored like a bruise.
My dresser must have walked here
on its four good legs. A mile
from home and filthy with guilt,
I let the scene unravel itself,
the window-view peeling away
like a sorry old snapshot
taken years before my birth.
About the Author:
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals.