At a Loss of 149 Acres Per Minute, the Rain Forest Falls

by Devon Balwit

Ce que je veux is ever to feel
            movement within, an inner

writ(h)ing identifiable as the next
            unborn. Puede ser

que sea posible—I am always
            scavenging, so hush up

and shield your face if you fear
            the theft of what you inspire.

Je veux mettre le monde entier
            dans mon sac,

an opportunistic bum. Let whatever’s
            being taken, por siempre

algo se pierde, be taken so slowly
            that I don’t feel its loss,

the pot-water boiling all around, my flesh
            cooking sweet.


[Devon Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out or forthcoming: How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press); Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl press); In Front of the Elements (Grey Borders Books), Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders Books); and The Bow Must Bear the Brunt (Red Flag Poetry). Her individual poems can be found in The Cincinnati Review, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Fourth River, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Noble Gas Quarterly, Muse A/Journal, and more.]