She was warned, she was given an explanation,
yet she persisted.
She chews each stone twenty times twenty,
and when her own teeth fail,
borrows more. She claws her way up
the sides of the pit,
and when they raise the walls, reaches
for the next handhold,
leaving fingernails and skin. Tell her
she is too much,
tell her to go home, tell her that her efforts
impress no one.
She might sob, but she will laugh with the same
breath.
Her laughter might be bitter, but persisting,
it will suffice.
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Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, Oregon. Her work has appeared in Oyez, The Cincinnati Review, Red Paint Hill, The Ekphrastic Review, Trailhead Magazine VCFA, The Prick of the Spindle, and Permafrost.
Photo by Gage Skidmore.
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