Jake Hawkey

The Bridge

Jake Hawkey

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Find me at the point of least resistance

or passing a motorway collision slowly

where no one ever believes me, a pioneer

interviewing the withholders of love

sleeping sincerely in their cars

& spanning the youth of a bruise.

Juliet’s hair cut short with rusted scissors.

Supple as good reason, can I postpone,

Alice in Sunderland piggybacking

her placater out, skint—but alive!—

I cannot postpone so I show with my

boatload grin, all over me like a cheap suit,

show-&-tell to the fake thugs who

are found out eventually.

Seniors, you attend to yourselves like classes

on how to daydream, like sycamore trees

blowing gently on the hill & I was so

lonely I learned to talk to myself &

wipe kisses off the bathroom mirror.

Then my consort of confidants called

truants showed me the middle of a story

is always confused, so with slings

& arrows, rolled blue mags boinked

on each other’s hoods, winter jackets,

we were all both damage & spoils,

meeting at the bridge & setting fire

to anything that would catch.

Jake Hawkey

Jake Hawkey studied art at the University of Westminster and poetry at Queen’s University Belfast.

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