Sean McDowell

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I am

the boy and the sling without the faith,
giant charging. My words drop
like stones from the loose strap,
and those who once lined
the camp behind me lower their heads
and turn away. In this stasis,
I cannot

blame them. They turn, as I have before—
standing waist-deep
in the Jordan, watching the dove descend,
only to flinch
in the moment of destiny—
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To Have Loved And Lost
A boy a girl a garden:
it always begins something like this.
You awaken to find rock still pliant
from the Creator's hand, the stars burning free in the twilight
We put our weapons in the trunk––
a wood staff, two metal bats, & a BB-gun
shaped like a Luger––
& set out for Lincoln Park in Trevor's '94 Firebird.
You had crouched to trace out a footprint in compact ice
with fingertips too frozen to feel,
glancing up at me and saying confidently,
'Two of them, probably infantry, traveling light, heading east
Photocopying My Driver's License
I set the brightness to one bar
and see in the face that slides onto the paper tray
the moment before Hiroshima
flickered––the eyes narrowing, diminishing to pupils
The Tower Of Babel
i am one of the few who was left behind
to lay his head in these forsaken lands. one of the few
who still awakens each day
to watch the half-completed structure


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6/16/2021 8:51:08 AM #