Coital, Post Coital
The plenitude of her bosom compelled him from his lassitude.
He worked himself to dissolution over her ample flesh,
the simplest dilution of I and Thou.
Deifying her mulierity, he mourned
the fleetness with which its splendor would dim,
the celerity with which their unified forms lost completeness.
She rumpled his hair, amused by his solemnity.
Certainly her amplitude could restore his dimples.
She vowed to put a damper on any overblown resolutions,
to mulct the formulaic, fecal rictus of her Poet,
swelling him lyrical once again,
ready to tongue her magnificence.
there are days that crack you to marrow but don’t
consume you, bluebottles land and lay eggs in your stink, buzz
in your head, presaging swarm. days you lift your
rock on the larval, the scurrying, the writhing. days
when you lie where you’ve fallen, the torn corner of something
larger shorn of sense, pen-scrawl blurred by rain, muddied
by footsteps. days you avoid mirrors, windowglass,
carsheen, afraid of the changeling self that awaits you, Dorian
Grey resisting his likeness. days when light pains
you, eyes narrowed to slits, a camera obscura of the not-quite
burned into corneas. days when you carry yourself
as gingerly as a medic a patient with severed spine, hoping
not to paralyze before reaching the field station. days
when you tip your head back to keep nose above panic, knowing
full well that the more you fight, the faster you sink, and above all,
you must not go under.
Devon Balwit is a writer and teacher from Portland, OR. She has two chapbooks forthcoming: how the blessed travel (Maverick Duck Press), and Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl press). Her recent work has found many homes, among them: Oyez, The Cincinnati Review, Red Paint Hill, Timberline Review, Sow’s Ear Poetry Review , Trailhead Review, and Oracle.