When I Left the Military
They gave me a painted statue,
foot-tall—a faceless woman
with hair gathered in a low bun,
wearing a long-sleeved,
floor-length white gown.
A wingless angel, maybe.
She claps in her arms an American
flag folded in a formal triangle.
That was how I felt at times
in that place—small and wooden,
one person carrying
an entire country.
Airshow
While Thunderbirds roar and storm the sky,
out of sight of the flight line I walk the clinic
perimeter, watching a hawk hover above.
Today the gates of the base have been thrown
open to the public and families pour in, happy
to have their taxes spent on gas for these aircraft,
even as they rant about prices at the pumps,
so long as the planes dabble a little with death,
distracting them while their sons get seduced
by recruiting booths. I’m only here today
on call in case the worst happens: Icarus falling
from the heavens, mechanized body atomized
in a blast, a star burning out. I am a laughable
failsafe, more symbolic than serious, one savior
for the likely massacre, running towards fire
with a stethoscope melting in my hand. The hawk
is here simply at his own behest: no need to compete
with his metal brethren, entertain the eyes of men,
or honor their boundaries once they’re put in place
again. And though murder may be on his mind
as he drifts around this pine strand, of all the killers
here, he’s the only one I trust with my life:
He’s the one I trust to take it only to survive.
Sandbox
When someone finds out about a deployment,
they say that they’re going to the sandbox—
referring to one of several Middle East locations,
sometimes also called a desert vacation.
When I think of a sandbox, I remember
bare knees red and mottled with the imprint
of hard grains; grit sneaking into socks
and shoes; hands smelling faintly metallic;
collective toys difficult to separate
after long afternoons—shovels and pails,
action figurines from after-school cartoons;
the little girl who no one would play with
for no apparent reason; the boy who threw sand
in other kids’ faces; our immunity to cold
or heat like the black ants milling every season,
their endless massacre by our heedless feet.
Sure, conflict and violence, even death, lived
in the sandbox, but the boundaries were clear,
laid down by the pale wooden planking
and the moms sitting all around on benches.
Our granddads had been to World War II
and our dads to ‘Nam. We never imagined
then that we’d follow them to the trenches
dug deep by politicians looking to feed
their egos and pockets by feeding us
without further thought to mortars and rockets.
Morrow Dowdle (they/them) is a Pushcart-nominated poet and has work in or forthcoming from New York Quarterly, Pedestal Magazine, The Baltimore Review, Poetry South, and Main Street Rag, among other publications. They host “Weave & Spin,” a performance and open mic series in Hillsborough featuring traditionally marginalized voices and volunteer as an advocate for the welfare of incarcerated people in North Carolina. A former physician assistant, they served in the U.S. Air Force in that role during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that followed September 11, 2001. They live with their family in Hillsborough, NC.
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