Of ourselves                                                                           —Devon Balwit


we would be divested,
holding out our arms
like sickly Marcel at Balbec, waiting
for a serving woman to lift it off
and pack it, like a frock coat, in naphtha.

How heavily it hangs, to be endured,
like the slow afternoon,
window curtains pinned
against the bright light.
We peek and peek,
but the sun dawdles, unflagging.

From down below, friends call to us. 
Wanting to descend new, better,
we delay our reunion, 
trying this or that tie.

If only achieving our ideal 
were as easy
as a kerchief fold, a piercing 
with a stick pin.

Coming, we call, leaving 
out the I. No matter— 
it will be the first of us
to arrive.

Devon Balwit

Devon Balwit's poems can be found in Under a Warm Green Linden, as well as in The Worcester Review, The Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, Apt (long form issue), Tule Review, Sugar House Review, Poetry South, and Grist among others. For more, see her website.

ISSN 2472-338X
© 2019