We Were Athletes

Even if it grieved you to see us—

spindly, meager,

each joint bigger than its limbs.

We were at the gym at 5 a.m. then back

after a day of whatever generated income. 

The real work knew no limit.

We coopted treadmills, dominated tracks.  

You’d see us in the street in all kinds of dark, 

with the deer & fox—running & running.

We gave up lipids like Lent never ended,

took up residence in the desert,

wore our ashes.

We made menus like suicide notes,

grocery list obituaries: the egg white, 

rice cake, undressed lettuce.

We lost hair.  We lost our monthly.  

We lost our libido, but not 

our hard-on for fitness.

We won races until we didn’t.  But we never 

left the competition.  We were sisters-in-arms 

but never friends—no, 

each of us on her own mission.

We steered clear of closeness, 

hid from others who might notice—

no way to explain how a full-grown tree

dwindles back to sapling, sinking, 

receding into seed.  

No way to share the mystery 

of willing reduction 

just short of dying.

MORROW DOWDLE has poems published or forthcoming in New York Quarterly, The Baltimore Review, Pedestal Magazine, and the Under Review, among others. Dowdle has been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net. Dowdle edits poetry for Sunspot Literary Journal and runs a performance series featuring traditionally marginalized voices. A former physician assistant, Dowdle now volunteers as a creative writing teacher for incarcerated folks and advocates for prison reform and lives in Hillsborough, NC.