Alex Hawkins

Waltz Red, Kind of blue

I have seen it in the waltz of red

and blue across Alabama blacktop,

in the wraith a shovel has over five bucks,

in bullets diving in buffalo sauce, in muscle

cars molded around Maple trees, and in

walks taken in big cities of jabs and pricks.

Sudden stillness

An imposed lull

I have heard it in snow white keys

jangling like Winter’s death, in the

grief that shoots bourbon off Beale

Street, in the country twang musing

hot days in January, in the tears after

the laughter of kids trampled for trap,

in the howls and screeches carved in

Norwegian firs and pale, lonely skin.

Do You accept those ignorant of You?

Lord, I am praying that you do.

I have felt it in the misery

ocean waves cackle with

when a child has one year,

in the mumbling a mudslide

has as it eats mobile homes,

in the hope when a hurricane

weighs less than silence, in

the slow fire a sunset judges with,

and in the memory of bloody peace

the Moon writes into the sky when

a single, silver trumpet captures it

and cries.

Searching for a real love

Often, on my way to see a woman,

I gave my heart all the way

to storm clouds, puffs of midnight

in the 6 PM air. It only misses

the freezing moon as something

barks at it, either conformity’s

corrosion oozing through my car’s

stereo or a creature whispering,

“Hello” from the gutter.

When I turned toward cemetery

gates, I deafened the music to let

the children of the grave hear

the ballads of decaying fig trees

and the hum of hornets in their hearts.

Like the coffins, I am newly planted

with an arisen soul. The dead and I

learn about The Light that throws

us around black suns, so I no longer

roam those old haunted cathouses.

We sing with chainsaw riffs:

I am alive.

I am known.

I know real Love.

Tombs

Some

use the watchful eyes of owls

or winged-dogs hunched in secure corners.

Some

hold obelisks pointed to the transactions

of sun and moon, wishing for Nile-river royalty.

Some

revive Athenian hallways, trapping

spirits into philosopher’s thoughts.

Some

slam stone slabs into dust,

bearing names and number to be withered

by rain, hail, teenagers, tourists, and time.

The King’s Tomb

tricks all the other tombs.

The King’s Tomb

makes the willows whisper through their

weeping limbs a hope for fallen dogwood

blooms, waking a choir deep in their

dirt-bedded roots. Reach your hand

down and grab it, the roots don’t let go.

The King’s Tomb

breathes fresh light for all the other tombs

to taste the psalms in wine or the proverbs

in a prayer of whiskey-soaked slide guitar

when the graveyard craves music and dance.

The King’s Tomb

breaks bread baked from the thoughts of

the Earth, so we no longer eat darkness

off chapel pews or temple floors and

paradise can reside in our feet

illuminated by a single light

from the tomb’s minute cracks.

The King’s Tomb

hovers in the evening prayers

of forgotten burial plots, parents

and child alike, so they won’t be

withered by Death.

How great it is, to know your King’s Tomb.

Alex Hawkins is a writer based out of East Tennessee. His work explores the crossroads of the Holy Spirit, heavy metal, and God’s beauty found throughout the southern United States and the people who live there.