Missing
I wished for a dad when I was young, still do,
for the memory of him, of being lifted, of stubble
against cheek, of a voice rumbling like Cuchulain
or any giant. I wished for the same man’s shoes
by the door, for not having to remember names,
for a set of commandments I could rage against
but not uncarve. I wanted to follow his pointing
finger toward constellations, crab spiders camouflaged
in blossoms, to trout tugging on a line, to which squares
the black bishop guarded. Since then, God, male lovers,
professors have blustered, thrown their weight about
on matters civil and aesthetic, but I don’t know
if my own father would have done just so. I have no
attic of artifacts, no trove of well-known stories,
just this ear, cocked toward the missing.
pholcus
of utmost importance is to wake
neither dog nor baby, creeping
with footfalls lighter than breath, for
intention to secret me over creaky
boards, around corners, to open
the mind’s window without rattling
the frame. light as pholcidae, I settle,
lay tendrils. if they catch me, it means
the broom, the boot. but if not, I fatten
here, in webs gracile and phantom fine.
—
Devon Balwit is a poet living in Portland, Oregon. She has recent work published or upcoming in The New Verse News, The Fog Machine, The Cape Rock, The Fem, Of(f) Course, drylandlit_press, The Prick of the Spindle, 3Elements, and Birds Piled Loosely.
