December 2017
 Donna Hilbert
donnahilbert@gmail.com
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


On the Drive Home from the Jolly Party a Young Mother Confesses


Wrecked my life, she says,
of the South Dakota
Christmas, the two of them stuck
in a blizzard, alone in the truck.
No Sex-Education—you can guess
what happened. She turns
to the backseat, face
aflame in her story, Wrecked,
she repeats, and Ruined.
 
I want to offer solace,
but can’t dislodge a word.
My husband, next to me,
mute as a mummy.
Her husband, at the wheel,
drives soberly onward.
 
I’m a young mother too,
just breaching my teens,
with a tale or two I could bare.
But, her candor scares me,
a game of Truth or Dare.
I sink deep into my seat,
pull my sweater up to my chin.
Quiet settles over us
cold and stifling as snow.
©2017 Donna Hilbert
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