Poetry by Devon Balwit

Writing What I Don’t Know

I open my mouth and out pops
danger. I snatch it back, not all

brave, at best only partially woke,
most likely still sleeping, dream-kissed

by privilege. I type and delete,
bending over backwards to be only

myself, no other gender, color, class,
circumstance, probing the blurring

of my own edges, trying not to make
white of oppression. I remember,

decades ago, the shocked pleasure
of seeing my secrets reflected

in the words of lesbians, fat activists,
bulimics, those brave enough to reveal

ostracism and ambivalence, bad
choices, self-harm. I want to do that--

confess imperfection
and free someone from shame.

The smallest of mammals, I poke
my nose out and steel myself

for a mad dash across the page,
praying for an absence of raptors.

​


Selfie

               “Woe to him who seeks to please
               rather than to appall!”
                                                                   Herman Melville

I see you, you butter-dripping flatterer,
liming the corpses, spackling over rot

reaching deep to foundation, see you
dashing about with the skinny mirror,

strewing likes and emoticons, polishing
scuffs till they shine to blinding, know

you for a laudatory lick-spittle, drool wiper,
photo-shopper, redactor, head-nodding ass-

kisser, fawning over the naked emperor
and his whole entourage; I see you averting

at the approach of jackboots, the rumble
of the windowless vans, bolting the door

and cowering, all quivering whiskers, behind
the dropped shutters of my own eyes.

​


Things Never Done

“Going to Taulkinham.  Don’t know nobody there,
but … I’m going to do some things I never done before,”
                                                                                                     Hazel Motes from Wise Blood

You feel life careening by,
               want to grab on somehow, slip

into its jetstream and cling,
                think what the hell, tattoo a reminder

to yourself on shin or scapula,
                come inside a stranger or let him come

inside you, not careful, no Plan B,
                drink recklessly, puke over the bridge rail

leaning so far out, you may plummet
                like a dark angel into water

black as asphalt, then stagger, head ringing
                carillon to the floor of someone

whose name escapes you, always going
                to Taulkingham but never

arriving, the city shimmering like a desert
                mirage before dissolving

in the flat light of morning, you awakening
                alone with a mouth full of ash.

​

Bio: 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 Poets Reading the News, Taplit Mag, The Inflectionist, The Fourth River; The Ekphrastic Review; Noble Gas Quarterly; Muse A/Journal, Rattle, and more.

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