Devon J. Moore

For Knives, Bridges, and Balconies,
by Devon J. Moore

The pears I bought and put in the glass bowl are cinnamon stick red
and rough. Pleasurable it is, the cutting them up and the looking.

Question: What couldn’t you help but do in a room where one wall
is a window? Answer: See all the other rooms you’re not in.

The improbability of probability is a law we know. One day it snowed,
it hailed, it rained, but we were surprised when the sun shone.

Once you slept in a hotel room next to a balcony
and the back of your soon to be ex-lover was a ledge. You are still

backing away.

All this pathos looks the same. Even if she’s not
the one who jumped off a bridge, she is.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 4.

Devon J. Moore

Devon J. Moore hails from Buffalo, NY with a lot of time spent growing in Wilmington, NC. She currently lives in Syracuse, NY where she teaches writing at Syracuse University and SUNY Oswego. Her poetry manuscript was a semi-finalist for the University of Wisconsin Press Brittingham and Felix Pollak Prizes in 2013.

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