The first two stanzas of the first poem in Joseph Donahue’s book of poetry, Red Flash on a Black Field (Black Square Editions, 2013)
WHERE EVERY HOLLOW HOLDS A HALLOW
I sleep in a tree. At night,
the tree flies to a beach where
the pebbles are gems.
Thunderclap: the moon
in bits. An office,
a chair in front of a desk,
a hitch in the interview: your
advocate, it seems, is a Nazi.
Nervosina, in the well of a pillow,
who now whispers my name?
The sky’s a dirty sponge.
The earth, a bucket.
A billing fiasco looms.
Meanwhile, on a red field
wet light gleams. (Was it so long
ago we drew the shades
at lunch, then ate
pound cake, fresh
from the freezer, and
Dad sipped vodka
as we sat in the dark,
playing comedy albums?)
An escapee lurks by a school.
Everywhere, choppers and cops.
But for kids, the lockdown
is a weird carnival on an
autumn night, so Egyptian.
A dry run for the Angel of Death.
The doorway of the forest is
brushed with blood. Help me.
My mouth’s out of whack.
Lies leap out. A white mist
hides the lake. The air glows.
A red spine shoots through a leaf,
the flame of all that will fall.
–Joseph Donahue
