nine to five

every day, I thread the intravenous line,
platelets and plasma

for another after I drag myself, anemic,
to the line.

walk away walk away the voices sing
over the bones

of those who have. it’s hard to become
a different kind

of nothing. I fold their counsel
like crumbs

in a napkin, to pick at during the night’s
long interrogation.

death is certain. to die in open air
perhaps better

than beneath florescent lights. either way,
I am an animal.

Devon Balwit lives scarily close to the Cascadia Subduction Zone. She has six chapbooks and three collections out in the world. Her individual poems can be found or are forthcoming in journals such as The Cincinnati Review, apt, Posit, Cultural Weekly, Triggerfish, Fifth Wednesday, Rattle, The Free State Review, etc. For more, see her website at: https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet.