A Particle, Perhaps, Spinning

I

I lay my head
in her lap’s altar,
her hands
playing like light
across my skin.

II

The Moirae unwind
their spindles,
click-clack
over and back,
snipping loose ends.

III

A thought
swells and falls
like a ghost ship,
laboring
the mind’s ocean.

IV

Lips, palate, tongue—
breathless,
unspoken,
I am a surd,

V

or, in quantum motion,
a particle, perhaps,
spinning
about itself.

***

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 have appeared in numerous print/on-line journals, among them: Oyez, Red Paint Hill, The Ekphrastic Review, Serving House Journal, The Journal of Applied Poetics, Emerge Literary Journal, Timberline Review, The Prick of the Spindle, and Permafrost.

Read ‘We Gloom and it is Our Gloom’ also by Devon Balwit here.

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