Hashimoto’s Revenge
You canyon-gaze me, my diseased thyroid encased in Grandma’s Venetian glass box. Gray smoke rises into the frigid air from the back of the dilapidated tool shed. The neighborhood kids are cooking hot dogs again. The orange cat makes her last sweep of the day before disappearing into the summer weeds next to the barren zinnia patch, their dead heads hung in prayer. I prepare for early bed, as the crows, moon, acorns find their lonely places. There are always chemicals to blame: they taint my outlook, pull me down into feathered escapades. Turning in damp bed sheets, twisting, rolling from side to side. Never check the phone in wee hours: biochemicals burn synaptic pathways, dismantle the safety switch to sanity. All is well for those who conform: choose pills with suggested dosage, stay prisoner to medical plan, obey doctor’s orders. Pet their advice like a sick kitty. Stretching limits results in shattering glass, scattering invisible shards. My thyroid oscillates, vibrates in throats. I have difficulty summoning my endocrinologist who reminds me that it’s all about quality of life.
© John Dorroh
John Dorroh travels as often as possible. He inevitably ends up in other peoples’ kitchens exchanging culinary tidbits and telling tall tales. Once he baked bread with Austrian monks and drank a healthy portion of their beer. Six of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Others have appeared in over 100 journals, including Feral, North of Oxford, River Heron, Wisconsin Review, Kissing Dynamite, and El Portal. He had two chapbooks published in 2022. He lives in rural Illinois, USA, near St. Louis.
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