Donna Hilbert, The 4th of July

 The 4th of July has always been my favorite holiday because it occurs at the beginning of summer and usually heralds the start of consistent sunshine after what seems, every year, like endless June gloom.  When I lived inland it was backyard barbecues and Marco Polo in the pool, and later, sparklers in the street.

Now, on the peninsula, the family gathers for food, volleyball and a dip in the ocean. It is the one day of the year when the peninsula is insanely crowded.  Strangers think nothing of asking to come into my house to use the bathroom.

As a nod to the founding of the country, I give a moment of thought to John Adams and Thomas Jefferson both dying on the same 4th of July.  Who says Americans have no sense of irony? This 4th of July poem appeared in my first, now long out of print, book Mansions, and so feels distant enough for me to present it to you here.

Stephanie Who is Twelve on the 4th of July

Stephanie who is twelve on the 4th of July

sits by herself on the curb:

palms pressed to cheeks, elbows on knees,

knees wide apart, (why, you can see her panties

from across the street).  She’s wearing her new

while dress, white pumps, white anklets.

The baby, babyish cousins wave sparklers

in the street while Uncle Mark lights

skyrockets, pinwheels.

Behind her, on the grass, her teen-age

cousins whisper “firecrackers,”

and “later.”  She wouldn’t turn around—

not if you paid her.

Her aunts have been whispering all day

too, saying “her time,” “breasts,”

and “trouble.”

Stephanie presses her fingers to her eyes

until they throb and the stars are of her choosing.

Then she slips between the species

and trots off:

                        tossing her head,

tossing her head.