Poetry

Poetry

Title: Driving at Midnight with the Headlights Off Author: Diana Hawkins
Date Written: Foreverago

My friend and I saw a guy driving with his headlights off one night and took bets on if he’d crash or make it home.

Later when her car broke down, she theorized that the car we saw was a metaphor for our night and, since she was an English major, I believed her.

But then the tow truck came and I caught a ride back to my house and decided that if that car were truly a metaphor for the night, then the tow truck would have exploded.

‘Cause surely that crazy driver never made it home,
Right?

And then you came over at midnight and reminded me that Life hated English-major-bull-shit and that I needed to name the ocean we’d been exploring for six months.

You know, I forgot how beautiful the night sky was until I saw you wearing it on your back, as if a cloak to cover your nakedness from anyone daring enough to look at my front lawn.

And I never realized the moon could blush till I saw your eyes; eyes that should have been jailed but weren’t ‘cause the cops didn’t know if they were green or brown, and thus, could not arrest them.

When we finished spinning starlight and moonbeams into a blanket of pleasure to wrap ourselves in, you lit up another joint and I ate another brownie. Then you asked me what we were

I thought of how the stars described their affair with the moon and why the night’s sky never got jealous. And I decided I was stoned when I told you that the moon was flirting with me.

You laughed while your hand clumsily waltzed over to mine.
You smiled while introducing your lips to my cheek.
And I wondered why cars bothered with lights in the first place.

Title: Postcard
Author: Diana Hawkins
Date Written: Foreverago

I like to imagine that you are here with me, but I know from experience that you’d never stand for such cliché. Even so, you must see Barcelona – if only for the drugs. The first night I was here I saw people lighting up in the alley ways and thought of you fitting right in with them – pot is a universal language after all – but then I remembered that this was a stylish and punkish crowd.

I can’t see you cutting your hair off on one side and dying the rest orange. Though, I can easily see you in their attire...and out of it. You’d like the bars. There’s no dancing and few play music so the only stimuli is your drink and your people, so both need to be perfection. You can smoke everywhere here without being looked at twice. I contemplated carrying a lighter just to not stand out in the hazy, bleary-eyed cafés. But then I remembered I was black and it was probably useless to blend in anyway. They all think I speak French and are very disappointed to learn I do not, especially when Spanish has already failed.

Oh the coffee! It reminds me of you; I won’t say how. Suffice to say that when I drink the thick and oft bitter fluid it’s as if I’m downing your – what did you think I’d be so explicit? (while I enjoy the act I hate the results) No naked picture, I know, but I’ve told you, never again – though that implies a first. I’d let you take one perhaps since you do know how to best capture my form for at least an hour, sometimes two…wait, what was I talking about?

Ah, Barcelona. Imagine a city big enough to get lost in and there you have it. Churches? Yes there are many beauties. Women? There are doubly many. Men? You got me. I haven’t gone clubbing yet. Though I suspect that in a dark corner of a disco, I’ll find a Spaniard who when kissing me will bite my bottom lip and I’ll think of you – or whether or not I took my pill today. Is that cliché enough for you?