Kat Hawker — "Old Lady Peach", 2013

Old Lady Peach and
Bleached white jeans
Drags lazily on her Marlboro Red, in the
Shimmering heat of West coastal sun.
The tarmac glitters and swells, lighting
Captain Parker’s Pub up
In Brooklyn Drag.
The little valleys pull in
Tight with French tips, while
Blue rinse reminisces a
Thousand occasions where she has
Solitarily loafed outside a
Thousand dinners, drinks, and
As a debutante, a
Thousand tiring dates,
To darken her blush pink dialect a
Dirty Brown.
Eyes sparkle sapphires that
Finally found a suitable buyer
After years of careless
Tanglers and Tossers.
Luminous, those watery orbs,
Pinpricked with stars and
Rimmed with midnight,
Crease in complement to her
Archaic cheekbones and grace
Fully unaware that she
Still stops traffic.


Published in HOAX issue 1


I’m a secret ballerina.
On Tuesday nights
at 2 am,
you’re in the kitchen
eating your flat mate’s peanut butter
with the lights out.

Once you told me how that fence panel got broken,
it was summertime and you were a pirate
(Swashbuckling always makes for innocent victims)

I creep through
at 10 to 2
on Tuesday nights,
and, using my
Prowess and Elegance,
scale your washing line,
stand aloof. Humming
Giselle’s solo softly,
twisting turning pointing toes
I pirouette immaculately in
imaginary tutu
en pointe in the moonlight.

That time you caught me
on Tuesday night
at 2 fifteen,
I had been
French kissing Russian Czars and
so put on my finest performance.
The kitchen light snapped on.
Startled cat
caught in the act
Poised perfectly among your
daytime tee shirts and cashmere socks
in Fifth Position.
The clothes line began to tremble,
pulling me down with you favourite
rabbit fur sweater.

You walked over.
Grasped me and heaved me up,
ashamed and vibrating,
coloured in with tell-tale blush.
I thought you might ask me inside,
to smuggle peanut butter or
sip rosehip tea.
you re-pegged your sweater and
told me to leave.

You do your washing on Fridays
now, and have it dry-cleaned.



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