On This Journey We Will Lose Our Lives. This is the price we have to pay to history. by Devon Balwit

(for all those in Bangladesh, like Arik Jebtik, brave enough to speak out
and have lost their lives for it)

That small bridge ++++++++ between ideas and passions,
my aim, ++++++++++++++ the tender nape,
a place of kisses +++++++++ where heads bend over dangerous books.

Being a believer, +++++++++ it’s my duty to kill,
to cleanse the earth +++++++ of insulters.
Thus, I stalk you +++++++++ and will flush you out.

If they catch me, +++++++++ I have thousands of brothers
ready +++++++++++++++++ to whet thousands of blades,
their whistle ++++++++++++ is not just wind.

Do not speak +++++++++++ of rights, science, love, equality.
Be silent ++++++++++++++ and afraid.
We are watching. ++++++++ We are watching.




Devon Balwit wears many hats in Portland, Oregon. Her poetry does likewise. Some it has found recently: 3 elements, Birds Piled Loosely, drylandlit, Dying Dahlia Review, Lalitamba, Leveler, Of(f) Course, The Cape Rock, The Fem, The Fog Machine, The NewVerse News, The Prick of the Spindle, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, The Yellow Chair, Timberline Review, txt objx, vox poetica, and Vanilla Sex Magazine.