In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order. Carl Jung
Always blue highways intersecting
like cracked pores, me driving blind.
Segments go missing from the map, or the map
goes missing, forgotten at a roadside diner
or the small chapel, where I tucked it inside
a borrowed hymnal and lost track of it
during the passing of the peace.
I invited myself on this road trip
and agreed to come, sure I could untangle
the mystery of me like Nancy Drew,
certain that some road led to the shack
in which I crowned, squalling, my secrets
still buried beside the stone chimney.
My birth elsewhere matters not at all.
Like a mother’s wet rag swallowing me up
and blinding me, fog surprises me daily.
When I emerge, I’m no cleaner, just dank
and turned around, passing lawn ornaments,
oaks, signs, I’m sure I recognize.
Each motel key bears so many fingerprints
it’s hard for me to get a grip.
Devon Balwit is the author of seven chapbooks and three longer collections of poetry. Her individual poems can be found in places such as: Peacock Review, Eclectica, The Ekphrastic Review, Punch-Drunk Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, Panoplyzine, Under a Warm Green Linden, taplit mag, Cordite, Rattle.