Tag Archives: Devon Balwit

Devon Balwit


Sometimes in winter,
the light catches the water
to reveal ice-bloom,
a strange lace
very like the fungus
that occasionally dapples
my belly and sends me
reaching for cream,
for no reason, really,
so gentle a guest is it
as we briefly share a skin.

Devon Balwit is working on welcoming the stranger.


Devon Balwit

How like Banksy, God is,

our hidden telomeres
programmed to shred
just when we become
sure of our worth, our
readiness for a climate-
controlled museum
cabinet, for an encomium-
laden retrospective,
gavel banging down
on a million-four,
our loved-ones gaping
at our disintegration.

Devon Balwit wouldn’t mind being the Banksy of verse.

Devon Balwit

Still Wonderful

Whatever war-damage it has suffered,
however smaller it has become,
it is still a wonderful city.
                   (C.P. Cavafy)

Either we are or are not a great empire,
some days reigning from a distant throne,

cells well-trained legions splitting
and sloughing, others chasing rebellions

raging far and wide, everywhere burning
to the smack of clubs, the cloy of carrion.

Devon Balwit is her body’s benevolent despot.

Devon Balwit


Look, look away, the feed’s grim dance,
the lesser kudu, all whorled iridescence,

holding me a full breath or more, while
the starving polar bear, a slink of ribs and

misery, catches my eye only long enough
to identify it, before, unable to soothe and so

sick to see, like a rubbernecker passing
shatter, blood-spatter, I move on.

Devon Balwit admires and worries about the earth’s creatures.



Devon Balwit

The Lesson of Ilmarinen 

Before you feed your forge,
consider why—

otherwise, though ductile,
your metal will cool

bent, your golden crossbow
ever-hungry for blood,

the prow of your shining
ship locked towards war,

your bright ox belligerent,
all hoof and horn,

your shimmering plow
uprooting fields—

and by the time you work
your gleaming mill,

you, too heartsick
to knead its grain,

its salt seasoning only

Sometimes even the greatest struggle delivers something bent. Devon Balwit never stops believing in the next time.

Devon Balwit

Saint Jude

Always scavenging, my husband
cannot say no to a free box, arms
spilling castoffs, broken things,
books in languages he cannot even read.

Devon Balwit religiously guards her one countertop. Anything of her husband’s that touches it gets swept to the floor.