September 2022
Bio Note: My mother has been gone for more than ten years now, and there is not a day in which I do not miss her. She was born September 3, 1925. She was my muse, my dearest friend, and tremendously funny. These poems are from Gravity: New & Selected Poems, Tebot Bach, 2018.
When I Open the Door
It scorches my face
like a slap: sweet odor
of Mother, trapped
in bags of jackets and hats,
in boxes of knick knacks
and books, which sat
two days closed up in my car.
It sears my face
while I empty the car
with each parcel I mail
with each offering of books
each bag that I give
to Goodwill: this perfume
of my mother leaving.
Mother Returns
Mother returns, as she might, from a cruise,
dressed not in black, but chartreuse.
Robust, tan, and tall, not pekid, not frail,
like when she packed in her life and set sail.
I’m warmed to accept her familiar embrace,
but startled to notice she’s wearing my face.
©2022 Donna Hilbert
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