I mean the future

by Aran Donovan

The moon rears general over bathers and
Trees. If it had a core, no cur
Could bark it down, no insults

Make it move. I get that we admire
Seeing more. An idea beyond too late,
Summoned abracadabra

And of which we are pupils, all studious
Of forecasts and frescoes,
the everyday, begging

Of them sooth. You know
That that pursuit Ignores the awe
Here all along


Prayer is a formal thing

by Aran Donovan

Perhaps why I can’t compose a simple
Line to you. It’s in my racket Veins
To be so lame, irascible in stately
halls, Hail from afar and yelling. Too
Pompous here to say that like
Demeter I want the world gutted, aflame
If absence unfilled? My own
Self blazed and denigrate. Fires
in the kitchen are a different kind
of burning than forests or
Wiring. First you have to know why
You’re dying.

Aran Donovan lives in New Orleans. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hobart, Juked, and Barnstorm Journal, and is forthcoming in Permafrost, The Common, The Journal, and Big Lucks. She tweets sporadically @barelymarigny