Tag: Paula R. Hilton
Departure
Youngest leaves for college today. Our house appears to understand. Our house appears to understand. Water heater breaks, ceiling weeps. I grab a mop, sweep up the weeps. Sam the Appliance Man is booked. Every plumber in town is booked. She carries on, keeps packing up. Nothing stops her from Read more
Heart’s Paradox
When you weren’t looking, I slipped a piece of my heart, its left ventricle, into your suitcase. This chamber pumps blood throughout the entire body. Mine, yours, ours. Waiting for a transplant, Stan Larkin lived 555 days with no heart at all. Carried artificial organ’s power source inside a gray Read more
Spinners’ Sonnet
Strange the writer terrified of spiders whose string game sorcery dazzles all prey. Hidden, shadowed, forever outsiders. Dear fellow scribblers, isn’t this our way? Spiders sip crimson blood. We drink black ink spinning songs of joy and devastation. Mysteries of existence on Earth’s brink, each fiction takes careful calculation. Destiny’s Read more
Ghost Knight
We haven’t spoken for years, yet my wounds are fresh. Your sword’s point, it’s center ridge, the length of its groove, as if a ghost knight buried his blade in my chest. It’s no secret, I once loved you more than the rest, despite your duplicity, your sarcasm disguised as Read more
On Newman Road
Here, I bottle-feed an orphaned lamb for the farmer next door. Feel maternal at nine. I dodge spider webs in our garden while picking tomatoes to grind into Mom’s Sunday dinner sauce. I run beneath our neighbor’s trellises. The only girl. Play War with Donny and Danny among the vines. Read more
Why Write?
Because there’s not enough time. Because there’s too much time, sometimes, pressing against our heads. Shakespeare said, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” Each mortal wears a time crown. Sometimes we reject this crest. Squander it. Writers strive to be responsible with time. To freeze, revise, control it. Read more
Muse’s Message
I am distant memory rising. Earthworm aerating compost in your dreams. A tunnel, torchlit. The way out, or in. The hand you squeeze for comfort. The hand that slaps your face. Your relentless race, never-ending chase. A glass of ice water in Arizona in July. I am not a lie. Read more