We flee from our burdens across the causeways of night,
but the road has ghosted. We bring each other down,
then use the twisted limbs to keep above dark water.
If we survive till dawn, it is because we are guilty.
Ravens clack from their purple-black hoods, eyes fierce
with knowing. We accustom ourselves to shame the way
a newlywed twists a bright ring about her captive finger.
The story snags at the joint and cannot be sloughed.
Every two a.m., we relive the harrowing, always running
from a city that casts us out. We bruise beneath offal,
gag on the taste of iron. Grudgingly, dawn releases us
from where we huddle in mud patterned by flailing.
Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, Oregon. She has a chapbook, Forms Most Marvelous, forthcoming from dancing girl press (summer 2017). Her recent poems can be found in: Oyez, The Cincinnati Review, Red Paint Hill, The Ekphrastic Review, Noble Gas Quarterly, Timberline Review, Trailhead Magazine, Vector, and Permafrost.