Rebecca Hawkes
Sighting
not using our inside voices
barefoot & hefting
matching backpacks
down the school bus steps
to the intersection at the edge of our farm
grass a crinkly beige & sky split ozone blue
forgotten apple smushed under my lunchbox
leaks a dribble of sickly liquid
body temperature rivulet
down the back of my shorts
feet stickening with the squelchy pop of tar
bubbled on the main road
the inland scenic route chip seal
that gets molten every twenty-degree day
then ripped up in chunks by passing milk tankers
gouging out the infrastructure of each summer
to winter us later in potholes
that frost over as stomped ice mornings
crack & splash in our good school shoes
until the bus comes
but for now it’s freckling season
sun-drenched & primal we pick
hot black bitumen off our calluses
use it to glue dry pine needles together
into combs & swords & witch amulets
knees scabbed in the dirt to fuss & bicker
having already forgotten
the permission slips we were shipped home with
then a brackish whiff
something feral
musks its way through the pine plantation
to slink over the state highway
brittle talismans crush in our hands
did you see it
that whiskered blackness that solid shadow
sleek haunch and broad paw pad
larger than a labrador
smaller than a cow
only a breathless haze where it went
heat rippling off the highway in the distance
a vacant mirage pooled between
the yellow pasture & the ordinary sky
clutch of splintered pine needles lancing palms
clotted with tar & dust
the seeping reek
from the sack of lamb tails slumped at the side of the road
Her Touchscreen Responding Breathlessly To Any DiElectric Constant Different From Air
no rosebuds from the bachelor today. a new self-diagnosis
of chronic oversharing. languid in her strappy bralette
and satins she selects an emoticon to react with. gold coin
of worship embossed with a face that belongs to her and to everyone.
that face when. that feel. emoji catharsis. snapchat solipsist metabolising
her easy velveteen sentiment resplendent in effortless
feeling. see there’s her problem: demanding permission
to suffer without feeling real pain. the confessional
thinkpiece genre going obsolete. post-privacy
sacrificing her secrets on an altar of disclosure
is worth less than it used to be. new tributes are needed.
a flurry of bursting hearts. nude duckface selfie at a vacant
dining table laden with fake crystal fruit and ornamental vases.
long glittery acrylic nails that pinch to jerk off with
but they’re how you know she’s worth it. consumption
ouroboric in this gluttony of feeds. she’s seen things
even she still doesn’t believe. a dashcam gif of a brick
through a windscreen. busty mature catgirl neo-nazis.
the bifurcated penis of a bandicoot. should she be jealous
she’s never received an unsolicited dick pic? thumb down
on the bobbing needle which stitches the next word
into the screen. embroidered memetic tweeting.
she makes out with her data double. shedding morsels
of intel like skin cells. cyborg gemini. me :: myselfie. you are not
a goddess. blasphemous evangelist a prude a slut. is she less
than a hologram to him? teetering on the rapturous threshold
of send and sent. message request accepted.
binaried life splitting half her time waiting for a reply
worrying he doesn’t like her enough and the rest waiting to reply
so he doesn’t think she likes him too much. beneath
the highlight and filter she is still hormone and raw meat.
pink at the centre, crimson, she is so ready
but purgatoried in messenger. pixel breath
misting the screen. cracked heart emoticon left on seen.
Rebecca Hawkes can usually be found writing, painting or painstakingly catching insects to feed her pitcher plant. You can hunt out more of her work scattered across the internet in places like Sport, Turbine, RNZ and Mayhem – or collected for your convenience at www.rebeccahawkesart.com.
Regarding ‘Sighting’, Rebecca writes: ‘This poem is inspired by the mysterious Mid-Canterbury Black Panther, a recurring local myth propagated through the Selwyn District since the ’90s. Sightings are reported to this day, although panthers have an average life expectancy of 15 years, so if it’s the same cat it’s probably getting old. I saw it when I was a kid. I know I saw something.’