Steven Espada Dawson
An American Birthday
For my birthday, I get to split the donkey open.
Hung from the bottom branch, it swings and slaps
its thick torso against tree bark. My Mexican
father circles around the silent, smiling beast
and teaches us kids to cheer for each
cracked rib. He shows us how to pray
with our hands around a maple bat. Cover our
eyes. Hope for sugar. Metallic wrappers salt
the earth where kids drop to their knees,
euphoric. I pummel what’s left into the grass.
Steven Espada Dawson is a writer from East Los Angeles by way of Denver. The son of a Mexican immigrant, he serves as poetry editor for Sycamore Review. His poems have recently appeared in Hobart, New Ohio Review, and The Adroit Journal. He tweets @verylargemoth. stevenespadadawson.com
Return to July 2020 Edition
For my birthday, I get to split the donkey open.
Hung from the bottom branch, it swings and slaps
its thick torso against tree bark. My Mexican
father circles around the silent, smiling beast
and teaches us kids to cheer for each
cracked rib. He shows us how to pray
with our hands around a maple bat. Cover our
eyes. Hope for sugar. Metallic wrappers salt
the earth where kids drop to their knees,
euphoric. I pummel what’s left into the grass.
Steven Espada Dawson is a writer from East Los Angeles by way of Denver. The son of a Mexican immigrant, he serves as poetry editor for Sycamore Review. His poems have recently appeared in Hobart, New Ohio Review, and The Adroit Journal. He tweets @verylargemoth. stevenespadadawson.com
Return to July 2020 Edition