Poems, pictures, and other evidence that I was here.
Welcome to my particular corner of the beautiful mess. I am Justin Hatchett. I put things into words when they refuse to fit anywhere else. Occasionally I draw them. Occasionally I make coffee and consider that a substantial artistic achievement.
This is where my poetry, prose, and art will gather: the tenderness, the trouble, the ridiculous little reasons to keep the light on. Take your time. A page is one of the few places nobody should hurry you out of.
From my desk
Poems from The Stars Were Mostly Side Effects, and other pages I could not keep to myself. Click a title to read the whole piece.
Softness Is Not Surrender
Water is soft. Ask stone what patience can do. Skin is soft.
How He Held the Glass
I arrived in pieces, each edge convinced it was the whole truth. He did not ask
Apology in Work Boots
He cannot say sorry without feeling naked. So he arrives Saturday with timber,
What the Fist Forgot
Before it was a fist, the hand knew other work. It held a crayon. Buttoned a school shirt.
The Good Knife
My father keeps one knife sharper than conversation. It slices rope, fruit,
Masculinity, with the Batteries Removed
Without the shouting, the engine noise, the need to win every doorway, what remains?
The Men at the Bar
They sit shoulder to shoulder, facing bottles because eye contact is intimate. One lost a job.
Instructions for Sons
Your father is mortal. Notice early. Ask about his childhood before memory sells the house.
Anger Is a Borrowed Dog
Anger arrives pulling the lead, all teeth and urgent muscle. It says bite. It says protect.
The Boy in the Bathroom Mirror
He practises a hard face above the sink. Jaw forward. Eyes dry.
Father, Sleeping
For once he is not keeping watch. A poem by Justin Hatchett, from The Stars Were Mostly Side Effects.
Poems that learned to stand still
Ten little pieces of me, dressed in ink. Open an image to linger over it, or unfold the words beneath it. No magnifying glass required. We are poets; we have misplaced enough things already.
Read the poem as text
I had none left,
so she lent me hers—
two steady hands,
one ridiculous joke,
coffee strong enough
to restart the dead.
by evening
I had grown
a little courage
of my own.
Justin Hatchett
Read the poem as text
I have postponed joy
for lack of money,
better weather,
a less embarrassing body.
Meanwhile,
an old man at the traffic lights
is dancing in hospital slippers.
I do not know his story.
I only know
the light turns green
and he takes
the music with him.
Today,
I am going to stop
leaving mine behind.
Justin Hatchett
Read the poem as text
I told God
he was terrible
at customer service.
no answers,
long silences,
lightning
in the wrong cities.
then a pigeon landed
on my complaint.
he may still be employed.
Justin Hatchett
Read the poem as text
I buried the man
who begged to be chosen.
no coffin—
just his old apologies,
a bent key,
and one last look
at the door.
I wore white.
Justin Hatchett
Read the poem as text
I used to call it kindness,
leaving the door open
until the weather
ruined everything.
Now I have a lock.
I am still a good man.
When love knocks,
I open.
When cruelty knocks,
I let it discover
the considerable beauty
of being outside.
Justin Hatchett
Read the poem as text
The wallet contained
more money
than my fridge contained food.
I found its owner.
He barely thanked me.
For a moment,
I wanted virtue
to issue a receipt.
It didn’t.
That night,
I ate what I had
with a man
I could bear to be.
Justin Hatchett
Read the poem as text
The small gods do not live in churches.
They live in alarm clocks
set after terrible nights,
in pills swallowed with shaking hands,
in applications sent after rejection,
in the shower taken
after three dark days.
Do not mock these miracles.
Sometimes survival enters quietly,
wearing ordinary shoes.
Justin Hatchett
Read the poem as text
all winter
the tree looked
like failure.
it did not explain.
it held its small fires
under the bark
and waited
for the world
to soften.
Justin Hatchett
Read the poem as text
When the frightened dog
would not come closer,
you sat on the pavement
and made your voice smaller.
You did not call it weak.
You did not demand
a better history.
Funny, how tenderness
becomes obvious
when it has four legs.
Try speaking to yourself
like someone
you are trying to bring home.
Justin Hatchett
Read the poem as text
I played the wrong chord.
The dog left.
A harsh review,
but independent.
Then I found a sound
I had never heard
come out of my hands.
For once,
I forgot to ask
whether I was any good.
I wanted to hear
what happened next.
Justin Hatchett
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