excerpt from Red of Split Water: a burial rite



Dear         ,


In the lush outlining of mountains Iíve called you up at daybreak. It is morning time in a way no light and without its glistening in intervals of dried needles ó her floor-cover. Between pines not here, beyond and of a black handwritten outline. A sharp down stroke enters then exits this page.

You are a picture, and Iím not a living total. In the purple you know the bruise, the blue strikes the violet and pinks. There is a wall, itís true, but Iíve shifted the image out of condition. Here is the remainder.

Look, the water here glistens under fire. Itís a plant-life, animal life. Some things here experienced solely in sound. Here, touch sky texture, a vein rhythm and its branching. Do you know what blood may haunt you?


                                                                           Ever,










I havenít told you of the boy as pyro. He sets thing to flame and catches. Is never caught. Maybe thereís more here but not enough for spitting at










Iím building parallels, maybe enough relationships of vulnerability or simplicity to please ó shift the story from blister to an opening, awakening, release.










The father, his vehicle in the sun. Yellow with spots of rain and dust collected on the windshield, a hand smudge across the top. This was his last wish










My ancestor burden is like a sinking remains, out of admiration of my father his approval and reel, motion was a fine unsteadily and where breath was. Lost swimmer it was the world in an unemphasized position, a stay that got too heavy used in all masculine ages. Under flame as long as the demonstrative and extended form is ó a trick of science grasped at in excess, slow in a tangle of difficulties like that water separated more crimes acquired by study into its heaviest division, closer to whatís desired parts, or all the dark correspondence. Extended from form, matter, the unknown weight root from of the universe, wed, detach, make ready the fading of inflection into a house, gathered















This is a warning and a prayer, to see the current as it spills. It spills


________________________________________

Lisa Donovan's first book, Red of Split Water, a burial rite, will be published by Trembling Pillow Press in 2016. She holds a Ph.D. from the University of Denver and currently resides in Edgewater, CO. Other work can be found on Kelsey St. Press Blog, Eratio Poetry Journal, Paul Revere's Horse, GlitterPony, Denver Quarterly, and Jacket Magazine among others.