Isle of the Dead
To the muted splash of oars, you consider your new home. You see you have brought too much, no room for it all. The furniture can be burned and the books, the tennis racquets and the butterfly nets. Harder to dispose of the body; its clingy hungers. With enough time, surely, it can be done. Devon Balwit This poem was written as part of the ekphrastic Halloween poetry challenge. 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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The Ekphrastic Review
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January 2021
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