ON NIGHTS WHEN I AM HIS HUSBAND

after Meg Day

by Morrow Dowdle

On nights when I am his husband, I summon 
uncharted vision.  
Though he spied me like a ship
through mist.  Though he cut the hair that anchored, 
cinched the first tie.  Though he was first to say 
handsome.  Still—
he never requested this.  

In the bedroom, tides shift.  A body looks the same
but feels little 
of the original.  How do we fit?  
His compassion fathomless, and still it strikes—
what does he miss?  

On nights when I am his husband, no kindly elder 
calls me son.  Instead, 
a beachside sidewalk 
where we’re menaced by sharks, two little fish a threat 
by concept.  What danger have I put him in?
He put no ring 
on this finger.

He is nothing if not iconic man from bark 
to heartwood.  
But what do I know of sex, 
except what swells my own?  What do I know 
of his deepest flow, the hidden work of nerves?  

The mystery not only about me but we.  He never
loved another like this. 
Is this raft revision, 
or just a skiff drifting into final draft?  
On nights when I am his husband, I cut him free
to write 
his own definition.

Morrow Dowdle is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist for
the 2024 Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize. Their chapbook, Hardly, was
published by Bottlecap Press in November 2024. They edit poetry for Sunspot
Literary Journal and run a performance series called “Weave & Spin” which
features historically underrepresented voices. In addition to writing, they
are an amateur herbalist and a student of the mystical and mysterious. They
live in Durham, NC. Find out more on Instagram @morrowdowdle.