Indigo Hawkins Poems

lacking context I
made myself a fool, fumbled
with the words: my throat
clogged by convention, unwilling to reform
...

sonorous droplets spatter no no no no no
oh so smoothly on my temples like
a well-oiled trombone slide, sinuous and
unspoken. a profuse tomato split
...

occupied by old aches and obstacles -
hard work hard face hard up for children
begging chocolate, chasing a tank
down the street like it were an ice cream truck
...

My orbit is odd:
galvanized,
radioactive: I think
I might split. Stand back
...

A man basks in a red-lit room stocked full
of dangling meat, his expression aglow
with the macabre bliss of a frilly henchmen
or a silly butcher’s
...

I have been thinking of all the bodies that could be mine,
of each face we claim and put to shame and how we blame
one another. I have been thinking
of all the people who could be
...

The kitchen is a good place for smothering things
that ought not to be smothered. As good a place as any.
There’s a fan. You know when it stops turning, you’ll start
burning, fill with smoke. Spend another morning attempting
...

are promised for the price
of a gumball on the street.

I might Ask an Atheist
...