by Kyle Harvey

The curvature of Hyacinth pulls you in, like gravity -- waking up in bed wearing hip waders, holy static, Coho salmon pink brassieres and the tight black leather of night. Cast after cast, Kyle Harvey bends his pole to the magnet of Monet's sunrise and reels in fresh catches, clenched fists, the ricochet of ravens at play. *Colorado Book Award Finalist*

"It shows great originality, brilliant command of language, complex and erudite meaning, imaginative and sustained use of metaphor, and tremendous musicality. It takes the Greek myth of Hyacinth and transforms it into an elegy that is at once a dirge and a praise poem for the regenerative power of spring. I love how skillfully the poet has used theme and variations, repetition (reminiscent of Poe’s “The Bells”), internal and slant rhymes, and unexpected rhythm shifts. This is the mature, polished work of a highly skilled and imaginative writer." -Wayne Lee, Judge, 2013 Mark Fischer Poetry Prize

Excerpt from the title poem Hyacinth:

When the hot sick panic begins to boil
when the hot sick panic
when the hot sick panic begins,

nothing but emphatic holy static
nothing but holy static
nothing but
nothing but holy

The holy static slowly fades away
the holy static slowly
the holy static slowly fades,

the days grow longer and the weight shifts,
the hell of night begins to lift,
spring's first born spills from blue
bulbs upturned and the ends of their stems.

Piles of cold dry blones near the mouths of caves
brought back to life by the will of Zephyr,
brought back to life by the will of his breath,
to the west in vanished layers,
layers and layers and layers of gray. Still

every year we mourn in darkness, 
every year we mourn the blood of a child,
a child starved in the comfort of angels, 
every year we mourn for Hyacinth
in the tight black leather of night.