Devon Walker-Figueroa

Down by the creek



          named for its sweat-



scented roots, my sister taught me



          to relieve the ache I imagined



God gave only the wicked. Here



          is where to place



your touch, your breath, your troubling



          assent. Delight



relived--the anticipated end



          of our exploit--came with gloaming, 



the appearance of lives



          you don't see lived in



full sun. The swallow



          you cannot name. (What I've learned



to call pleasure is more



          akin to belief.) My sister slouched



over when the soughing



          ceased, said, no one has to know



this place exists.