Adieu
I will not be cleaning your pool
while you’re away for forty days
laughing, strolling along the Seine.
What a puzzle that you can fly
to Paris but not pay for help.
A people pleaser and doormat
no more, I am changing my ways.
Yet, you’ll ask again. And again.
But no, old friend, I won’t comply,
especially not when you yell.
Enjoy the mirrors at Versailles.
I give you to God, mademoiselle.
Shalimar
Affectations can be dangerous.
——Gertrude Stein
It was Aunt Helmi’s signature
scent: Heady florals flow into
a spicy base rich in vanilla,
incense, and sandalwood.
Everywhere she went, people
purred, “God, you smell so good.”
Each day began with a spritz
on wrists, the backs of knees,
neck, chest. Attracting men
(and mosquitoes) to pulse points
where arteries ran close to skin.
The last creature Helmi drew in,
a hummingbird. While hanging
linens on the line, a stab in her
neck. Quick, piercing pain.
Then she saw the hummer,
right in front of her. Wings
loud, buzzing, a tiny poke
that barely bled. Helmi shrugged,
said, “I feel fine.” Two days later,
died in her sleep. Coroner, rude,
dismissive, insisted, “old age,”
but family knew it was Shalimar.
Good Ill Will
Listen, it isn’t always petty
to hold a grudge. I learned this
from the crows. If you mistreat
one, she’ll tell all her friends,
in perpetuity. Her eternal enemy,
the great horned owl, hunts
for her blue-eyed hatchlings
to devour while she sleeps.
Next, it’s payback, a retaliatory
act. At sunup, she assembles
her posse. Her murder of crows
caws incessantly, mobs every
slumbering owl they find, attacking
until they fall from their perches
or die. Both species have been here
for more than 500,000 years. Theirs
is an ancient beef. Endless strife.
Like most, I had a great horned owl
in my life. I replay the ways she hurt
me regularly. A well-meaning friend
advises forgiveness. Not for her, for you.
But I remember the crows, and know
sometimes holding onto anger keeps
you safe. Some grudges are healthy,
even sacred. I will never open my door
again to the one who stole my heart
then ate it.
Paula R. Hilton explores the immediacy of memory and how our most important relationships define us. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in SWWIM Every Day, The Sunlight Press, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Ink Sweat & Tears, Feminine Collective, Eunoia Review, and many others. She has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, and her first collection of poetry, At Any Given Second, was awarded a Kirkus Star. Due to her adoration of her own small dog, her favorite revenge story is John Wick. Website | Instagram
