poetry by morrow dowdle
Divestment
You start with the cast-off shirts off male relatives—pinstripe and chambray. They hang
loose on your shoulders, gather thickly in rolled cuffs and tucked waist, give you bulk.
Your chest gets flatter by the grace of tight tanks. You find shapeless pants in gray
and green. No more flatter or enhance. Nothing that wants to cling, just cover,
clothes one of the only tools for your translation. Soon you will raid the men’s sections
of consignment shops, order your first suit. Seek advice on the sit of a blazer, fit of a tie.
You relegate all dresses to the guest room closet. Less in exile than in waiting.
Ruffle and drape peek out—curious girls. Strappy shoes lie low. Not ready to leave just yet.
They were your sisters, for awhile. Are they/you ready to part, to become part
of another family? Soon you will know your doubt as a transitory garment.
How To Tell Your Daughter You’re Trans
Morrow Dowdle has poetry in or forthcoming from New York Quarterly, Pedestal Magazine, The Baltimore Review, Dandelion Review, Poetry South, and Main Street Rag, among others. They have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. They edit poetry for Sunspot Literary Journal and host “Weave & Spin,” a performance series featuring BIPOC, LGBTQIA+, and other marginalized voices. In addition to writing, they are an arts organizer and curator, activist, and parent. They live in Hillsborough, NC