REGULAR

DEVON BALWIT

 
 

          Enoch felt for his stick and laid his change on the counter. “I got to be going.”
          “Don’t let me keep you,” she said.

          “You may not see me again,” he said, “–the way I am.”

          “Any way I don’t see you again will be all right with me,” she said.

 
                                                                  (Wise Blood, Flannery O’Connor)

 
 
Why is it so hard for you to believe that God has filled me to where

my skin splits wings? What do you think Redemption looks like?

 
Even that horse’s ass on the last stool shines like a puddle reflecting

neon, hair tufting wild inward jubilation. You think you know things,

 
but what you don’t rattles shutters and rips shingles, a powerful wind.

I haven’t got time for your back. I can call disciples from stones. I won’t

 
be the first. Somewhere someone lies on a mat, too far from a miracle. I

got to be going. You may not see me again—the way that I am. You laugh,

 
but morning will catch you still here, refilling the salt, face fallen into ruin.

When the screen door slams behind me, a bird somewhere will break into song.

 

 
 

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