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 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.