servant of the living word
a chill breeze pours over me from the night window,
what baptism should have felt like had God existed
when I was fully immersed, decades ago, in a Wisconsin
lake, a disassembly and then a remembering, a being
shaken from stupor into light. now, faithless, I am
much more worshipful, more given to speaking in
tongues. daily I rise early, fan the holy spirit into
brightness and release her, servant of the living word.
Devon Balwit wears many hats in Portland, Oregon. Her poetry does likewise. Some it has found recently: 3 elements, Birds Piled Loosely, drylandlit, Dying Dahlia Review Leveler, 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, txt objx, and Vanilla Sex Magazine.