by Jake Hawkey
A friend sends me a picture of his face gashed after a stag do scooter ride; I instruct him to tell his lightweight loves Cologne glistens & so, taking it upon himself, he kissed its pavements! If you were diving to your death in a silver bullet airplane would you kiss the person beside you, holding their hand, even if they had kids or a spouse two rows in front? On the day you die I like to think flowers are delivered to the lobby of your heart letting you know it will be your last & if you’ve picked up the calls from God or from pure goodness itself, the message is slicker than silk, a snowball hitting my mother’s kitchen window as she pours glasses of milk for the boys of the neighbourhood, out of breath. Mercy is somehow older than the hills though each of us meets it alone, anew. Oh, I’ll wear my best smile.
Jake Hawkey studied art at the University of Westminster and poetry at Queen’s University Belfast. He was selected for Poetry Ireland Introductions in 2020 and is currently a poetry PhD candidate at Queen’s.