Poetry by Dan Hawkins

Dan Hawkins is a poet and librarian from North Carolina living in South Carolina. Charleston has grown on him, though he still questions the wisdom of building a city on a swamp. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Constellations, Tipton Poetry Review, and 45th Parallel among other places.

Pomade

When Death came he stank
of pomade like my grandfather,
(who was alive when I met him).

Maybe Death, too, was alive
when I met Him, though
the stink is what I remember.

When I see Him again, I suspect
I might think of Grandaddy Davis
who slicked his hair like Death.

Or of Grandaddy Hawkins, who didn’t
use pomade so far as I can remember.
He died too, going on thirty years now.

Or Mema Hawkins who wore a wig,
or Grandma Davis who didn’t and kept
an aerosol can of hairspray. Both dead.

Or of wax-headed Will from work who
I still knew well or monk-pated Matt
from school who I didn’t. Both gone.

Death stank then too.

A less astringent scent, spiced,
with a rancid beef base note,
cheap cologne over sweat.

Residue

Pollen paw prints on the roof,
raccoons left their residue.
The cop that woke me says,
“Did you keep a gun inside the car?”

No, I’ve never owned one,
though I maybe think I should.
I’ve heard the jackboots’ pounding.
First time a cop’s knocked on my door.

Pollen paw prints on the front seat,
raccoons left their residue,
though they didn’t eat the peanuts
that were sitting on the dash.

I’ve never owned a handgun,
but I am a decent shot.
Used to think I’d blow my brains
out if I had one.

I’d bought a cheap guitar
while my Gibson’s in repair,
to keep my fingers limber
but I’d taken that inside.

The pawn shop had some pistols,
and some rifles on the wall
Maybe when I sell the guitar back
I’ll see what they have in stock.

Pollen paw prints on the back seat,
the jack’s still resting on the floor,
the checkbook’s in the armrest.
No raccoon feces in the car.

Still, the driver’s door is open.
I grip the wheel and listen.
The howling behind the sirens
serves to compound my unease.

The hounds of the regime
are unleashed upon the weak.
I’m a man of peace on Sertraline
dreaming violent dreams tonight.

Trailer-Shaped

Move along the fundament
of quiet to find its shape,
or else trace the bending path sparks
take bouncing through the mist
off a trailer dragged chain
as dawn taints the swamp air.

It’s not putting on airs
to seek the fundamental
silence that forms the chain
that anchors and gives shape
to words emerging from the mist.
Maybe not while driving behind spark-

trailing trucks, though. Sparks
arcing at seventy miles an hour through air
still morning-thick with mist
mesmerize. But the development
of a working theory to shape
their meaning is a chain

best yanked after changing
lanes. Pull over. Park
on the shoulder. Reshape
expectation. Air
out the fundamental
assumptions. What was misdirection?

What was simply missed?
Dragged by a causal chain
that would stump a fundamentalist,
let alone one whose certainty sparks
at a far slower rate, who, nonetheless, stares
at the retreating shape

of the trailer-shaped
avatar of silence fading in the mist?
Why should I care
if a poorly secured chain’s
what sparked?
The fundamental

thing is the chain reshaped
the morning, sparked in the mist,
and a fundamental quiet filled the air.