Gary Hawkins

by Gary Hawkins

Here in the woods we measure our boredom with an
inventory of our broken obligations to the rest of the
world. No one is waiting for us to call. We have
nothing to say. We measure our darkness in the smear
of bats, elephant hues drawn against a bracken
backdrop. We measure it in the click-click-clicked
circumference of illumination given by a 3-way bulb.
We measure it in the black shrieks of children that,
please God, must be some kind of animal call. And
we learn from the radio the exact trajectory by which
the Strawberry Moon—who knew it was already
June—will cross the ridge and blind the meadow. But
for this blackout of clouds tonight, pulled up tight
against the mountains. But for these low mists of
static hissing a faint forecast over the FM. And I am
awake again, my shadow body laid out next to you,
waiting for the whatever moon, that unreliable
streetlamp, while a lightning bug clings to the
windowscreen, raising and lowering its semaphore in
an unparsable pattern, beckoning to the steady
nightlight in the corner, which will not listen to my
little fears. No, never. How I have tried.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 3.

Gary Hawkins

Gary Hawkins is a poet, teacher, and scholar. A letterpress chapbook, Who Do We Know Who Works? is forthcoming in 2014 from Trade Union Press. He thrills at having one of poetry’s most enviable addresses in Black Mountain, North Carolina.

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