The CSS Awards - Site of the Day

Superimposition: Romanian Folk Dance No. 3: Pe loc (1915)

Jeremy Allan Hawkins




To keep time I’ve set a drip

on the faucet, just something to measure

the intervals between meals

in ones & twos,

to stop these radiators from drying me out.

The sounds of the drops striking the sink basin

collect in the air—like rain on Victoriei

that first night we went dancing.

I drank too much & you scolded me

for not saving you

from the boy who danced too close.

He felt you up not knowing

sweat from rain water—

you swore in my bed

you weren't hot.


Now I turn on

the television. Despite cop shows

I don’t think it’s helpful to study

a single person in a single room—solitary

motivations tell us little. A crowd says

more. Show me a mob,

shoulders hurrying through the rain

into a cellar full of disco

lights & neon drinks

& I can tell you something

about people.

Call it ethnography if you must,

but collect those melodies & the passages

of hands from your hips

to your ass, & those grazings of lips.

Make a worn catalogue

of the bulky excitements of your partners.

Let them rove.

Maybe then you’ll know more

about want & need.

While you sweat

through your moves I’ll be busy

trying to figure out how to get through all this

honey you bought & left—

the scent of linden blossoms carries me

too close to the bees & their bee-work

& I can only eat so much

yoghurt, or drink so much tea,

this song is much too short

for the time I wait.






The lithograph above is by Bob Tomolillo and titled "H20 Pinata." Check out our interview with Bob here


Jeremy Allan Hawkins is a US Fulbright Alumnus and a native of New York. His work has recently appeared in Tin House, Salamander, Hayden's Ferry Review, PANK, and Super Arrow. He currently lives and teaches in France.

A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure. - Henry David Thoreau


View Submission Guidelines


Contact Us