November 2017
Donna Hilbert
donnahilbert@gmail.com
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
What to Believe
You worshipped at the church of the open court
in shorts, T-shirt, and red bandana
playing tennis, Sunday mornings, once
we’d given up on mass. Slow coffee and music
were a kind of church for me, so the boys and I stayed back
in our pajamas, tuned the radio to
94.7 a little bit of heaven KMET KMET
A bit of heaven too, the mere act of flipping
pancakes onto a stack, crowning with butter
and genuine maple syrup, pouring icy
milk into Loony Tunes glasses, giveaways
from the fast-food joint where we ate most Friday nights.
Breakfast with the Beatles, all the Beatles still alive,
darling children playing with their food,
our beloved dog licking syrup from the floor—
who could wish for more?
I did love Sunday mornings, but needed more than love.
I lacked the knack for easy pleasure.
Those days I didn’t know what to believe,
so baffled was I by fury at the sight of you
walking freely in and out the door, whistling, happy,
your red bandana dripping sweat into my eyes
as you tried again and again to kiss me.
first published in Chiron Review
What to Believe
You worshipped at the church of the open court
in shorts, T-shirt, and red bandana
playing tennis, Sunday mornings, once
we’d given up on mass. Slow coffee and music
were a kind of church for me, so the boys and I stayed back
in our pajamas, tuned the radio to
94.7 a little bit of heaven KMET KMET
A bit of heaven too, the mere act of flipping
pancakes onto a stack, crowning with butter
and genuine maple syrup, pouring icy
milk into Loony Tunes glasses, giveaways
from the fast-food joint where we ate most Friday nights.
Breakfast with the Beatles, all the Beatles still alive,
darling children playing with their food,
our beloved dog licking syrup from the floor—
who could wish for more?
I did love Sunday mornings, but needed more than love.
I lacked the knack for easy pleasure.
Those days I didn’t know what to believe,
so baffled was I by fury at the sight of you
walking freely in and out the door, whistling, happy,
your red bandana dripping sweat into my eyes
as you tried again and again to kiss me.
first published in Chiron Review
©2017 Donna Hilbert
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