my  body  burns in its secret  chamber, a  full 
feeling,    like    youthful     elbows    pressing 
against earth in a late at night passing of the 
jug,   a  what-does-it-all-mean   round  robin. 
What  does  it  mean,  this  post-throb  throb, 
sperm     swimming    to    no     more     eggs, 
baby-shop   closed,   heart   still   open?    For 
hours,   I   walk   bow-legged   around   these 
embers,    summer    sun     pounding    down, 
carrying    you   to   the   park   and   back,  air 
hot-petal sweet. Soon, the  ashes  will cool, a 
beach  fire-pit  the  waves  douse,  but where 
flames once danced, they’ll dance again.
Devon Balwit

Devon Balwit

Devon Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out or forthcoming: How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press), Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl press), In Front of the Elements (Grey Borders Books), Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders Books), and The Bow Must Bear the Brunt (Red Flag Poetry). Her individual poems can be found in The Cincinnati Review, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Fourth River, Tap Mag, Noble Gas Quarterly, Muse A/Journal, and more.
Devon Balwit

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