Devon Balwit

Devon Balwit is a teacher/poet living in Portland, OR. She has two chapbooks—How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press) and Forms Most Marvelous (forthcoming with dancing girl press). Her recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in: The Cincinnati Review, The Almagre Review, The Stillwater Review, The Tule Review, Red Earth Review, The Aeolian Harp Folio Anthology, The Free State Review, Front Door, Cease Cows, Peacock Journal, and Eunoia Review.


Give yourself a good working over— a water-boarding, electroshock.
When you try to plead, deride and jeer, showing yourself no mercy.  That way,
you will fear you, knowing blood nothing. Let the other parts of you hear your
groaning, your pained sobbing in the night. You will gain a fierce reputation.
You are your own baby left outside, winds howling, wild dogs sniffing slyly.
If you survive till dawn, you belong. If not, you can have other children.
Some will call you cruel.  They are weak and unworthy of your attention.
Your own hands fit your scars exactly. You are key to your own unlocking.


me ander
me re
me mory
me dia


rhy me
fra me
the me
sha me


me me