I make my daughter strip herself
from her walls—the track ribbons,
keepsakes, photographs with mugging friends,
posters, flower crowns. I could not take
my hand to her things in her absence, her room
a shrine—baring and boxing akin to dismemberment,
to slaughter by proxy. Each time, my hand
trembled, fell back, and it stayed as it was.
Only she could return it to the living, to dailiness,
defying jealous gods through her own agency.
Devon Balwit wears many hats in Portland, Oregon. Her writing does likewise. Some it has found recently: 3 elements, Birds Piled Loosely, drylandlit, Dying Dahlia Review Leveler, Mothers Always Write, Of(f) Course, The Cape Rock, The Fem, The Fog Machine, The NewVerse News, The Prick of the Spindle, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, The Yellow Chair, Timberline Review, txt objx, and Vanilla Sex Magazine.