Four Poems by Kim Dower

Happy Hour

Magicians never move away from their magic
the stranger in the bar tells me.
I’m waiting for my friend, sipping vodka
from two skinny straws.  They hover around objects
that easily move, have special coins in their
pockets, face hair in unique places.  Why
do you know so much about magicians,
I ask him?  Are you one? I wish, he answers.
I’d change this room into a palace, we’d be dressed
in robes, layers of fabric draped around our ankles,
we’d be drinking ale and eating turkey legs,
laughing from our guts. We’d be dead
in the morning from poisoned apples – a  dessert
prepared by the rival palace.  Who are you,
I ask him, moving my drink closer to myself.
I am the heir to the throne in the village
where you were born, the one your parents
escaped from before you could walk.  I’m the one
who saved you by hiding you in the sleeping car
on the train we’re still riding.

Lives

I was never a gerbil
poodle or lizard
I was no ones wife
yet I carry in my bones
the memory of giving birth
in another century
under an orange moon
I always took a human form
in rags or gingham once in lace
imported from France
played violin in a King’s
private chamber he
banished me
when I struck the wrong note
I have learned to cope
one life to the next
the ancient voice inside
corrupting and consoling
tells me I am here
to prepare meals for anyone
who’s hungry I’m grateful
to crawl on all fours
carry a mouse in my mouth
hear it sing to its lover
who lives in the dark cottage below
where I was born many lives ago
in a room so silent I could hear my braids
grow, each strand of hair a song
for my next life

Unruly Aura

The cashier at the health food store
tells me I have a beautiful aura.
Wait, I tell her, if you want to see
a really beautiful aura, wait until I’ve taken
my Renew Life, Ultimate Flora, Probiotic.
After that my aura will knock your socks off.
She smiles at me and rings me up. My money
has a beautiful aura, too.  My dollar bills
float out of my pink wallet.  The man behind me
swells from the heat I generate. Each step I take
brings me closer to God, the final, fabulous aura.
Take my hand, I tell her, squeeze my aura —
it’s hungrier than ever, and looking for someone
to devour.

Naming the Puppy

They’re young and in love
so they think of human names:
Zoe, Ruby, Judy — like the name
of a girl you’d sit next to in math.
They move on to dog baby names,
Lamby, Girl, Puppy.
They like Puppy so for an hour,
that’s what she’s called.
Come here, Puppy, they sing,
her paws — pink, tender — slide
across the room.  Puppy’s a sweet name,
I tell them, but soon your puppy
won’t be a puppy, and when she hurtles
through the park her teeth locked
onto a sloppy stick, a pit bull chasing her down,
how’ll it sound when you call, Puppy, Puppy,
your voices airy as frisbees floating
across the grass. I watch the puppy lick
my son’s lips, nibble his girlfriend’s nose,
devour their faces, as if they were made of sugar,
devoted fur ball all ears and eyes,
eyes that have been on this earth before.
By dinnertime her name is Gwen,
a star’s name, a nurse’s, or what you’d call
the middle child of a noisy family.
I watch Gwen pour herself
into their arms. There is no name
for the way she loves them.
No name for a sun that shines only for you.

Kim Dower  was born and raised in New York City. She earned a BFA from Emerson College, where she has also taught creative writing. She is the author of three collections of poetry, all from Red Hen Press: Air Kissing on Mars (2010), Slice of Moon (2013), nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and Last Train to the Missing Planet (2016). Dower’s poems have been featured on Garrison Keillor’s “The Writer’s Almanac” and Ted Kooser’s “American Life in Poetry,” as well as in many journals, magazines, and anthologies. She is currently city poet laureate of West Hollywood and teaches at Antioch University.