Dreamt of a beach
that was covered in dead sharks, each one
planted upright in the sand, tails buried,
bodies shrivelled and grey, fins
flopped and useless in the sun. My brother
and I walked among them, looking for
one particular species (I could not remember
its name). We were both crying. The day was
very close and still. We were there for hours
but neither of us ever saw the sea.
We were looking for
one particular species. I could not remember
its name but I knew
that when I saw it, the word
would swim into my skull, fluid and predatory
and alive. We were both crying
but that was the only water. The day was
very close and still. We walked for hours
and we were looking for something
but there were only
salted bodies, shrivelled and grey, fins
flopped and useless in the sun.
I could not remember
its name
and then I could not remember.
Neither of us ever saw the sea.
Rival
C/W - Death of a young person
My old boyfriend’s old girlfriend
died when she was 19.
It was a hit and run. Afterwards
he wanted to die too
but I was there, and already knew
of plants that cling to coastal rocks
and sandbanks, anything that can grow
anywhere it can, those scattered colours
that are locked to cliffsides, drowned daily in salt
tugged and battered by stormwater
but do not unroot or let go. I knew
my job was to wait for him, to look
through photo after photo
of them together, say of course I understood
he loved her most. And yes
she was beautiful. A fist of nettles
in my throat. She was Tragedy
with a capital T, filmed in velvet lamplight
fattened on night berries, set to all the silken music
that ever made him cry. I held him
so carefully, for so many years, made him
a thousand seamless shirts, hid all
my jealous needlework, saw him break anyway
broke myself too –
but that was years ago. These days
are mine: I go to work, buy my coffee
watch the pigeons, pay my rent
let each new August sting and shriek and blaze
and snap and flower me, see flies
rise green as emeralds, cut my hair off
lie in meadows, dance by rivers, find her face.
Her eyes
meet the mouth of an old digital camera
and she has not changed, and yet
I barely know her. I barely know myself:
so world-bitten, rose-merry, crinkled up
in light and pity
and she so young –
so bloody fucking young I want to cry
Becki Hawkes lives in London (UK) and loves being outside and butterflies. A Best of the Net nominee, she is published in Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Shore, Rust + Moth, Brittle Star, Pulp Poets Press, Crow & Cross Keys, Little Stone Journal, Lunate Fiction, Wrongdoing Magazine, Perhappened and The Madrigal (forthcoming). Her Twitter is @BeckiH_678