Hilda Weiss came out as a
poet in 2003. Her work has appeared in Salamander, Nerve Cowboy, Ekphrasis
and Pacific Coast Journal and is forthcoming in the Meridian
Anthology of Contemporary Poetry. A former instructor of self defense and
Shotokan karate, she works part time as an instructional designer for a Southern
California utility company.
Of course they look like wings,
these long, dismembered arms blown down in the rain.
They crack like old shoe leather in the sun.
The sidewalk is crowded—
great shards, small chips, massive debris after
the wind of the night.
What do I see?
A mass of red fish, old roots,
a mermaid’s hair spread out on the rocks.
Rudders and oars broken loose from a ship
and one lone wave rising off the meridian.
A pelvic bone. It could be a saddle.
The waist of one impaled on a fence.
A slide down cement steps.
Black pavement through a pianist’s fingers.
A deck of cards displayed for a game.
Three forks, one spoon neatly stacked.
A battlefield of plows and rakes.
Too many palm fronds to trip on.
I cross the street.
I’m no fighter.
Published in Salamander
© Hilda Weiss
From the ceiling
in small living
rooms all over America
comes a quiet pressing
in on our lives. We are
women living alone,
not unhappy.
Reading, perhaps,
or watching TV—a game
show, a talk show, a show
of laughter. We laugh
on the phone with our friends.
Never mind that we dream
of climbing a hill bright
with strange grasses
more often than we
can remember.
Published in Nerve Cowboy
© Hilda Weiss
These moments.
These sometimes moments
of joy and success, of beauty and surprise.
How embarrassing.
I am so
unaccustomed to good.
Moments of awe
encumber me.
Still,
beginning to see,
they occur and occur.
Perhaps they swim
like young, brown trout.
When the eye and mind
learn to separate fish from water,
suddenly the fish are everywhere.
Forthcoming in Meridian Anthology
© Hilda Weiss