Jake Hawkey

We Disagree on ‘Sabrina’ for a Girl

Jake Hawkey

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We have these great big bay-windows

looking out over the sea, and the ferry exchange

for Glasgow can be seen floating every morning.


All the people about to board, fishing out tickets

from pockets with cold, reluctant fingers.

I sit and watch your slow movement with coffee.


These windows mist over every evening

when frying something or draining pasta.

It’s a peace I’ve never known before,


a peace that’s never met me before,

but I can feel it learning my name, my lean.

On Friday, I wait home for an engagement ring


to be delivered to our door, hide it in the attic.

Lilies have such longevity as dying flowers:

I bought them when we moved here


and their heads have grown proud and stately.

I make dinner and these dark windows mist again.

Sometimes, the blue lapping against them


is urgent like puffs of neon octopuses

floating up to say hi,

squishing their noses to the panes.


Turns out, there’s a nursing home next door—

ambulance blue means half of something like us

is dying tonight. They’d tell us to enjoy the view.



Jake Hawkey


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

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