by Devon Balwit
A brokenness in need of fixing, we carom,
blowing out sail after sail. At the helm
gapes a hole the shape of a captain
in love with his flail. We keep eyes
to our holystones, thinner with each
fretful pass, and scrub fore and aft.
In sight of shore, we hoist a false flag,
gilded with import. All know our master’s
true master, his fathomless coffers
deep in the hold. Our sad tongues
misremember the taste of fresh water,
the tartness of greens as we bleed
from both ends. Weeping awakens the sleepers
in the fo'c'sle. We ourselves
may be its source. Without a hand
to our throat, there’s no knowing.
Devon Balwit's most recent collection is titled A Brief Way to Identify a Body (Ursus Americanus Press). Her individual poems can be found in here as well as in Jet Fuel, The Worcester Review, The Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, Apt (long-form issue), Tule Review, Grist, and Rattle among others.
