November 2015
Shortly before he was killed, my husband and I moved to a rattle-trap beach house on the peninsula in Long Beach. Going to sleep to the sound of the surf and waking to dolphins and pelicans sustained me through the almost unbearable grief. Making the place habitable gave me a task; writing gave me purpose. I am still here, loving the place, taking nothing for granted. www.donnahilbert.com
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Author's Note: In one of the many interviews I have read with the great poet Stanley Kunitz, he advises poets to not rewrite old poems, but to revisit old subjects from a new perspective. The first two poems are from my long out-of-print Mansions, the third poem is from my recent book.
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T H R E E P O E M S A B O U T M Y F A T H E R
Don Hughes Bruster 1925-1980
1942 Snapshot of my Father
He could be my child,
this boy at seventeen,
centered in front of a palm tree
in the parkway
of his sister’s yard.
This motherless kid,
in a borrowed sports coat
and slacks that fold
too deeply over his shoes.
His curly hair is combed back.
His lips part in an almost grin.
I know the history of this picture:
how he came to California to find work.
How he dug ditches, riveted metal,
picked fruit,
returned to Oklahoma to marry his girl
before he turned eighteen. Nothing
to remark about, given the war.
And I know the life that followed:
the guns hidden in chimneys, bruises
under scarves, how the half-smile
concealed a boozy rage. Still,
it moves me:
how he glistens in this picture,
the deep crease of his slacks,
his boyish curls.
Traveler in Paradise: New and Selected Poems, PEARL Editions, 2004
This Gun is Real
I have seen my face in the black metal
felt the heat
breathed gray dust hanging
in the air.
This kid knows
what makes Saturday night special.
I open the flue
hide the gun in the chimney.
I am talking about terror.
Now I look for the knife.
This knife is real.
I have seen it at work
slicing the Sunday roast.
I slide the knife
into the shoe box
replace the lid.
Now it’s the middle of the night.
I am lying on the floor.
From the light under my door
two voices.
He says, “I’m taking the kid.”
She says, “I’ll do anything.”
Something black comes up from my stomach
covers me.
This child knows
how to die.
Sundays he sleeps late.
We get up early.
I bring her the knife.
She starts dinner.
His favorite
pot roast sliced thin
pearly white onions
potatoes steamed in their pink jackets
leftovers all week.
Traveler in Paradise: New and Selected Poems, PEARL Editions, 2004
Level
Spirit level it’s called
this rectangular frame, vial
of liquid centered in the middle.
spirit center level
Not a yoga prop
but a mason’s tool
like the one my father used
Saturdays, Sundays, weekdays
after work laying brick
around our house in the valley
mastering geometry
turning oblong to curve.
Curve around orange tree
after tree laden
with blossom then fruit.
My father lay brick on brick
with a cunning sure hand.
And I imagine his pleasure
as he checked this work
and found it true,
the one thing he could do
to make his world level
to make his world right,
one brick after brick at a time.
The Congress of Luminous Bodies, Aortic Books, 2013
©2015 Donna Hilbert