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
in a napkin, to pick at during the night’s
death is certain. to die in open air
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.