Issue 21




Out of Body


Devon Walker-Domine





How is it only last


winter we breathed         in the unspeakable immutable

      more detail than thought


how         the pupil of her portrait seemed to hold


the scene         unmade

bed      grains of eye      shadow fading on the sheets


we could only think


of moths      how they tremble

their scales      into dirt         we could only see


what outlived ownership         the face

the painter failed to capture the consequential


stain un-lifted from the carpet         dark

mist of breath         shape of dampened being-


in-the-world-of-the-world     shape of gone     yet still


the windmill quilt lying     rumpled as though ready to be

pulled over a body     what grows       too quickly cold


is     gathered in anamnesis and am is

ready to be driven into any eye until no ray of light will

hell-bend into simulacra of here of this


breath         forever echoing itself

like the quilt that keeps keeping its hand-me-down



until the details drop like millstones

                           from the throats of the living only


to be re-fastened to heft         how


quickly winter’s rotation     away from itself          re-

minds us     what remains


stitched in the image of eternal synchrony     camphoric


until the moths learn their young can feed on anything


they can dissolve in their mouths

                  (even the sturdiest articles, even



their heirloom blades)         can grow


                  bones of paper skins of dust eyes unblinking

and illegible always         in the patterns of flight










Devon Walker-Domine is a professional-ballet-dancer-turned-poet.  She lives in Iowa City, IA, where she serves as poetry editor for The Iowa Review.  Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Permafrost, The Silo and Kitsch Magazine. 



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