The Works of Kirk Hathaway 

Residing in North Carolina where he pursues sailing and the publication of an online magazine celebrating open waters of the Carolinas, Kirk Hathaway is graduate of SFSU's Masters Playwriting Program. A veteran of numerous productions, Hathaway credits his shift from playwriting toward poetry to a 1993 head-on collision where others lefts him for dead, pinned within his truck.  The deposition claim "a moment later he was squirming around the ground like a worm on hot cement" is an analogy he plans to have bettered before his next left-for-dead experience.


All Poems © Kirk Hathaway

Now and Later

Somewhere near a fence row, I see you
at the back of the property
where a dozen ghosts delay your days,
keep you inside the center of a seeded dandelion
waiting for wind and the wanting to go.

“Do you believe in fairies?” I whisper
from the gate where the passing of the mailman
has made even the dogs dumb of strangers.
I see you up there wandering, the dogs too
in your world of worlds inside.

You look up to a breeze that doesn’t come.
The dogs find your attention and you
find them, your hands’ unconscious company
as I move to touch the gate but pause
my fingers just touching and no more.

I imagine some miles down the road
pavement disappearing under my wheels
that even now you are coming up
from the dogs, looking down the drive
imagining someone was there.



Wishing For A Girl

tenderness is not simply uncut grass
or the inside of a baby’s palm,
though the universe of these things
could teach much to gravel and chalk,
to glued envelopes and final gavels…
tenderness is a promise, that beginnings
themselves are pathways---the tulip poplar
grows a quick, stiff forty feet only to have
its cream pink white petals parachute
softly to a stream below, to accent
the first breath of spring with gentile
pureness among the rot and deterioration
of winter’s last decay, yet the poplar
begins green and vulnerable: another
chameleon on the rock of this hard world.

you tell me he’s no longer tender to you,
the harsh grit of sandpaper is the feel
of his hands to your breasts, your cheeks;
his fingers the prodding tools of dentists,
and making love has become the reckless
excavation of your very last treasure.
you cry yourself to sleep to wash away
something of the soil of your body, and
in the bitter reach of unconsciousness
his mother’s cackle cracks open from
your distant reception and you hear her
warning, for the first time, to watch your
hairspray and lotion because of her
boy’s curious intensity to mix poisons
and perfumes into concoctions he
would pour into ant hills and bee hives

“as a boy” you hear, the hard dry wood
of “he would”; as a boy you fear . . . if
beginnings can be tender grass, they can also
be a water moccasin, a bite more deadly
in its infancy yet always growing toward
death; your hands, cold while making
love have become sweaty in thoughts
of raising vipers; you give this moisture
to your belly, holding the secret seed
of all beginnings to yourself, praying
you have the power to raise uncut grass
and flowers that drop in delicate petals,
praying he will leave before he poisons
the only thing you will ever make together