The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far from the Tree
Right above my head, hoof beats, the self
I could have been bringing down the crop
on lathered haunch, the smell of sweat
and dust, the crowd roaring. Father, however,
felt otherwise, and father always wins, jowls
and gold chain heavy. I am following
in his footsteps, being driven, rather,
from pillar to post in more ways than one.
The driver knows his business and keeps
his foot on the gas. I dream of throwing
myself out. There’s a certain bridge where
my attaché would never break my fall,
so high, even father couldn’t save me.
This poem was written as part of the surprise ekphrastic poetry challenge on Magritte.
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). More of her individual poems can be found here as well as in The Cincinnati Review, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Inflectionist; Glass: A Journal of Poetry; Noble Gas Quarterly; Muse A/Journal, and more.
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