Two Poems by Morrow Dowdle

Sleight

I have no idea how he does it, this man
with his braids like pretzel twists,
polo shirt red, color of his profession.

He’s ready with two lovely assistants.
One to distract with the promise
of stickers. The other to step forward
if there’s any resistance.

The magician draws back the tiny arrow.
His fingers flick. The needle leaps
into my son’s small wrist. The boy

doesn’t feel it. His blood slides
smooth into one vial, then two.
The magician slips out the needle quick
as he sank it, and there’s a bandage

over the puncture. He never smiles.
The children that come here need more
than magic. He’s just a passing trick.

*

Bones

If we’d had Appalachian grannies,
         they might have shown us how

to throw those bones, inspect
         angle, shape, and crack,

connect with ancestral knowing.
         Instead, this was New Jersey,

and the most friendless girl I knew
         was digging up her dead cat

for the fifteenth time, though this
         was the first I’d seen of it.

No shaman, no peddler of relics,
         she just wanted to see her again,

so she laid out the bones one by one
         from the softening shoebox,

putting the skeleton in order:
         Hyoid, clavicle, carpal and radius.

Gibbous scapula and matchstick ribs.
         Pelvis ring that sprung one litter.

Each lonely vertebra. The tail’s spindly chain.
         The skull she did not set

on dark March soil, but cuddled it
         to her left breast bud.

I was afraid of the two gaping craters
         where green orbits had lived,

the ghastly fangs. The girl asked,
         Wasn’t she beautiful?

I was trying to be more to her
         than witness, but this sealed it—

yes, our mothers sad dumbly
         in their kitchens while our fathers

drank themselves numb—but we would
         never be connected.

I could never dig up a dead cat.
         I could never love something that much.

*

Morrow Dowdle is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of the micro-chapbook Hardly (Bottlecap Press, 2024). Their work can be found in New York Quarterly, The Baltimore Review, Pedestal Magazine, and other publications. They run a performance series which features BIPOC and LGBTQIA+ voices. They are an MFA candidate at Pacific University and live in Durham, NC.

Set by Ralph James Savarese

Set

I’ve broken so
many bones,
that the word
fracture might
as well be father.
I love you, fracture…
Each cast was
a coffin, and home
room, a kind of wake
where the mourners
signed my body.
Punning, the doctor
said, “You’re all set!”
Every femur
needs a foster
placement.

*

Ralph James Savarese is the author of three collections of poetry: Republican Fathers; When This Is Over; and, with Stephen Kuusisto, Someone Falls Overboard: Talking through Poems.