In those years, on the eve of revolution,

all that smacked of wealth and decadence was smashed,
even a grand piano, dragged into the night
and hacked to pieces. Its ivory keys clashed
with the fire-lit faces, clutched tight
in fists that ached to bring down the world, or flashed
like the teeth of the smoke-smudged fighters.
The piano groaned as it died, moaning
beneath the ax a swan-song of mourning.

I know but a taste of such resentment,
passing the gated houses of the rich
as I walk my dog, those with vistas, absent
the broken things that mar my yard. I pitch
my poop-bags on their spacious lawns in sentiment
only—my envy an unscratched itch.
The gap between the haves and have-nots gapes
as if to gulp the nation. Where’s ἀγάπη 1 ?

Small, I recited the pledge, sang America
the Beautiful, watched the race riots on TV
from my Motown suburb couch as if on a
different planet. School worksheets told me
I’d inherited the good, the very best, the
world eager for the lessons of the “home of the free.”
(Growing up, of course, meant leaving la-la land
and confronting the offal on which it stands.)

The archival photographs show the clash
between the protestors and the Tsar’s army.
Just one side had guns. The other sought to lash
the Tsar’s conscience with a petition, a flea
hoping to move a lion. We know the flash
of gunpowder followed. And today? Aren’t we
again tinder awaiting the lit match,
dying in harness while the comfortable watch?

1. agape

Meditation App Fail

Encouraged to breathe
by a voice earnest and perky, I do so,
inhale through exhale, feeling
my ribcage expand and my belly
soften, but thinking
of Eric Garner and George Floyd,
who received no similar encouragement
to take a comfortable seat and reach,
seat to crown, to soften
the tension around the eyes, to unhinge
the jaw and settle in, birdsong
and river-current rippling in the background,
no similar message to notice what is
without judgment, no gong
to summon them back
to four rose-colored walls,
to a log of mindfulness minutes,
to a badge celebrating
the length of their self-care.

Devon Balwit teaches and writes in the Pacific Northwest. Her poems and reviews can be found in The Rumpus, The Worcester Review, The Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, Rattle, Apt (long form issue), Tar River Poetry, Sugar House Review, Poetry South, saltfront, and Grist among others. Please visit her website at: https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet