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How We Bury Our Dead
How We Bury Our Dead
How We Bury Our Dead
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How We Bury Our Dead

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Jonathan Travelstead's debut collection of poetry, HOW WE BURY OUR DEAD, follows a speaker who is coping with the death of his mother. He places himself in life-threatening and self-alienating situations in an effort to shield himself from grief. This collection takes the reader on Travelstead's journey as a volunteer in the National Guard in Kuwai
LanguageEnglish
PublisherCobalt Press
Release dateMar 10, 2015
ISBN9781941462034
How We Bury Our Dead

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    Book preview

    How We Bury Our Dead - Jonathan Travelstead

    HOW

    WE

    BURY

    OUR

    DEAD

    poetry

    JONATHAN TRAVELSTEAD

    COBALT PRESS

    Baltimore, MD

    ADVANCE PRAISE

    Jonathan Travelstead maps the quest for his elemental end points and beginnings. Doing so, he spans topography as various as Southern Illinois strip mines, automobile accident scenes, and Iraqi battle zones. What results are narratives that bare-knuckle gut-punch easy redemption. These poems honor the dead and the dying, refusing to avert the eye from certain explosion. It’s no wonder the keenest offer prayers for hand tools that do something palpably useful, say, prying open the wrecked heart’s flaming chariot of half-spoken desires.

    —Kevin Stein, author of Wrestling Li Po for the Remote

    Jonathan Travelstead’s fearless poems are about the other in each of us, those sudden illuminations of the self in which we realize we are not alone. The voices of the estranged, the willfully forgotten, and the restless dead inhabit us. In any given moment, a lover’s face or gesture reveals a mother we’ve run toward and away from all our lives. An electrocuted man’s last minutes tick away to reveal our need to both connect with and hide from one another, to rely on comforting fictions to soften the truth, to insure that we don’t go into that anonymous dark alone. It’s a startling, affirming collection that stares down our other selves, compels them to speak.

    —Scott Blackwood, author of See How Small

    In How We Bury Our Dead, Travelstead sings out a tortuous and indelicate elegy that singes the most remote edges of loneliness. ...These poems escape and embrace the grief of his mother’s death in equal measure.

    —Travis Mossotti, author of About the Dead and Field Study

    Copyright © 2015

    ISBN: 978-1-941462-03-4

    Cover design by Rachel Wooley

    Book design by Andrew Keating

    Author photo taken by Charlie Nance

    Cobalt Press

    Baltimore, MD

    cobaltreview.com/cobalt-press

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without written permission from the author/publisher.

    For all inquiries, including requests for review materials, please contact cobalt@cobaltreview.com.

    eBook formatting by Skypark Infotech.

    Pawley’s Island as a Portrait of My Mother’s Dying

    PART ONE

    Pharmacological Dream of Travel Through Time and Space

    Captain America, Ali Al Saleem Airbase

    Perimeter Run

    Haiji

    Bazaar

    To the Democratic Nominee, October, 2008

    Guardsmen. Ali Al Saleem, Kuwait

    Rhanterium Eppaposum

    Highway of Death

    Still-Life, Falling

    Martinez

    PART TWO

    Paper Lanterns

    Denali Star

    Moose

    Alaska

    Aubade

    Fifty-Two Hertz

    PART THREE

    How We Bury Our Dead

    Prayer of the K-12

    Dupont Paint Factory

    Prayer of the Maul

    Shock

    Therapy

    Prayer of the Wild Hose

    Prayer of the Flat-Head Axe

    Separation

    Prayer of the Halligan Tool

    Dream of Car Wreck and Failed Extrication

    Ralphie

    PART FOUR

    Prayer of the Motorcycle

    Mitch’s Motorcycle Savage and Rebuild

    For Jean Ann Travelstead

    PAWLEY’S ISLAND AS A PORTRAIT OF MY MOTHER’S DYING

    Today sunlight is a damp thing,

    skin peeled back from scalloped waves.

    The Atlantic bares its teeth

    as tide cowers beneath mussel-scrimmed sand,

    bits of fractured opal showing in the jawline.

    From beneath the steel blue awning

    we can hear the pier’s timbers mewl with each heave

    as the structure leans from light.

    It is dusk. She won’t see another summer.

    When I shuffle her to the beach house,

    even the sky’s tired omens persist:

    Signal flares flicker into light,

    expose V’s of seagulls against the sky’s drop-cloth.

    They fizzle for a moment,

    then snuff out like sparks in oil.

    PART

    ONE

    PHARMACOLOGICAL DREAM OF TRAVEL THROUGH TIME AND SPACE

    I

    So much to worry with the maths. The extra two hundred a month hazard pay volunteering for high-risk duty. At

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