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
Dear John Letter to my Uterus
We’ve not been formally introduced.
Who wants to meet a lover at a funeral?
Old cozy blanket, fuzzy mitten, coffee pot
simmering behind my stomach wall,
out of sight,
like my cousins in Oklahoma,
like my pink angora sweater
misshapen in a trunk.
I’ve been happy knowing you’re there.
Thank-you for cooking up my children.
I forgive you for letting one slip by.
But lately you’ve become a nuisance—
a dog that won’t quit licking,
a too precocious child,
a lingering house guest.
Like a sailor on leave,
you’re a creature of excess.
I won’t spell it out.
You know what you’ve been doing.
There. I feel better. This clears the air.
Must close, so long now, job well done.
All things considered, it’s been fun.
From Traveler in Paradise: New and Selected Poems, PEARL Editions 2004
©2016 Donna Hilbert
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