Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Winter 2015    fiction    all issues


Cover Peter Rawlings

J. H Yun
& other poems

Colby Hansen
Killing Jar #37
& other poems

Melissa Bond
Freud's Asparagus
& other poems

Jane Schulman
When Krupa Played Those Drums
& other poems

Susan F. Glassmeyer
First Moon of a Blue Moon Month
& other poems

Melissa Tyndall
& other poems

Micah Chatterton
& other poems

Emily Graf
& other poems

Kate Magill
LV Winter, 2015
& other poems

Michael Fleming
Meeting Mrs. Ping
& other poems

Richard Parisio
Brown Creeper
& other poems

Jennifer Leigh Stevenson
Circe in Business
& other poems

Laurel Eshelman
& other poems

Barry W. North
Molotov Cocktail of the Deep South
& other poems

Charles C. Childers
& other poems

Ricky Ray
A Way to Work
& other poems

Cassandra Sanborn
& other poems

Linda Sonia Miller
Full Circle
& other poems

J. Lee Strickland
Anna's Plague
& other poems

Erin Dorso
In the Kitchen
& other poems

Holly Lyn Walrath
Behind the Glass
& other poems

Jeff Lewis
Charles Ives, A Connecticut Yankee
& other poems

Karen Kraco
Shaker Village at Pleasant Hill
& other poems

Rafael Miguel Montes
& other poems

Erin Dorso

March in Manarola

Water presses and slips

green silk over stone,

a mother’s hand over hair,

tangling loose strings of foam, floating


the broken

cat’s cradle, the rope

and the rock and the sea,

the sea,

the sky and the rock and the

red boats lined up,


On the Drive Back to Andersonville

Snowdrifts rush across Lakeview Drive.

Naked tree trunks pull white coats on their backs

heaving polar fur bit by bit

until they rear up, ancient monsters

showing their dark bellies.

Branches, bald and bone,

each limb capped with pearl talon.

Translucent snakes shine off the ends, slicing

wind as we scream by them at 65.

I shiver against the window on the way back out

to the stout, less dignified part of the city

just after New Year’s midnight.

From across the console, my husband sighs:

Isn’t the snow lovely?

In the Kitchen

Chopping cabbage

the way I taught myself

from eating nabe so many times at the izakaya

around the corner.

No technique—

just hacking at squares of leaf

the best I know how.

We’re Italian

and I’ve watched my mother cut the peppers

wide and firm for cacciatore

lean strings in the salad.

Daikon is probably the same

and I julien an in-between, indecisively sized amount

of about a handful too many

and toss the extra white strips

in my clean, white bin.

My neat kitchen hides the cook

I keep shamed in the cupboard.

I poke and prod at the ordered implements,

order my boyfriend around,

act the woman of the house

while crumbs build up in the dark corners

a real woman would know about

and the nabe leaks bright kimuchi

into cracks in the straw floor.

Fig Keeper

In the evening, I watch the fig garden

below my window.

The air stills.

I wait, listless,

for stretched leather skins to split open

and expose what’s been ripening


Grow a person,

I imagine,

who will speak my tongue,

sweet and pitted and


Erin Dorso is an educator and poet living in Walla Walla, Washington with her husband and two children. She has taught language arts in Florida, Japan, and Washington and now develops professional learning for other educators in her region. Her poetry is inspired by the natural world, at home and on the road.

Dotted Line