Devon Balwit


Devon Balwit


The suicide runs, always just out of reach.

Tell me, I say. I want to listen. Or. Enough,

I say. I’ve heard enough. The days repeat

themselves, a semaphore of want, a dark

stoop of talon, piercing. Ankle deep, I wade

through the remains. My ears recoil like

spent shells on shingle. Shh, they say. Shh.



Shoat, checkerboard, skate park. Grip the

bridge as it lifts to hang you above dark

water. Squeal when chased. Suck barked

knuckles, both your blood tasting the same.

Massage your scalp where he dragged you by

hair. Stop, you said, don’t. Next time,

greased, you’ll slip through fingers. You’ll

castle, entrench to your strongest square.

Careen now, railslide, the grind good,

roughing you smooth. Sacrifice, goofyfoot,

less, more.



she writes, come, come. The doors are barred

against me. Time is a chained goldfinch

pacing its perch. Sweetheart, come. We used

to segment a ripe pear, placing an end in each

our mouths and meeting in the middle.

Remember? Now, I am ripe. I am

segmented. Where are you? Sweetheart,

come. Undo my restraints, untangle my hair,

lift me from my fecal bed. The paper they

give me is never enough. I cross it in waves,

break against its edges, but find myself still

here. Still. Here. I retreat in a sucking of

shingle, a grinding. Sweetheart, come. With

each pass of the pencil, I scratch a spell. I

shape you in grey scale, hoping that, when the

leaden nub wears to blood, you will appear.