It happened as we knelt
on the floor of my tiny apartment,
the hardwood scratched and dull from years
of students passing through
with their futons and secondhand TVs.
Not a moment of reverence,
just cleaning after unpacking
the rest of my baggage.
More of a proposition than a proposal,
our only witness the ghost
of the previous tenant, tumbleweeds
of her black hair circling the room,
unexorcised by the super’s broom.
It was a moment of desperation
draped in the scent of disinfectant,
mutual insurance
that after a year’s separation
there would be someone
to come home to.
We were betting on a feeling,
setting off into the sunset
on a horse with three legs,
a boat with holes in its hull.
We never guessed
we’d get so damned lucky.

Morrow Dowdle has previously published poetry in the Schuylkill Valley Journal, River Poets Journal, Edison Literary Review, APIARY, and other journals. She also writes graphic novels, most recently in collaboration with the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences. She has studied at Emerson College’s creative writing MFA program and currently works as a physician assistant.