By Brenda Hillman
Often visitors there, saddened
by lack of trees, go out
to a promontory.
Then, backed by the banded
sunset, the trail
of the Conquistadores,
the father puts on the camera,
the leather albatross,
and has the children
imitate saguaros. One
at a time they stand there smiling,
fingers up like the tines of a fork
while the stately saguaro
goes on being entered
by wrens, diseases, and sunlight.
The mother sits on a rock,
arms folded
across her breasts. To her
the cactus looks scared,
its needles
like hair in cartoons.
With its arms in preacher
or waltz position,
it gives the impression
of great effort
in every direction,
like the mother.
Thousands of these gray-green
cacti cross the valley:
nature repeating itself,
children repeating nature,
father repeating children
and mother watching.
Later, the children think
the cactus was moral,
had something to teach them,
some survival technique
or just regular beauty.
But what else could it do?
The only protection
against death
was to love solitude.
Brenda Hillman, “Saguaro” from Fortress. Copyright © 1989 by Brenda Hillman. Reprinted with the permission of Wesleyan University Press.
Source: Fortress (Wesleyan University Press, 1989)
Poet Bio
More By This Poet
Girl Sleuth
A brenda is missing—where is she?
Summon the seeds & weeds, the desert whooshes. Phone the finch
with the crowded beak; a little pretenda
is learning to read
in the afternoon near the cactus caves. Near oleander & pulpy
caves with the click-click of...
More Poems about Activities
Stomp
I come home,
feet about to bleed
from angry stomping.
“Boy!” says Mom.
“Quit making all that racket.”
But what does she expect
when, day after day,
haters sling words at me
like jagged stones
designed to split my skin?
I retreat to my room,
collapse on the bed,
count, “One. Two....
Nowhere Else to Go
Turn off the lights.
Wear another layer.
(Sounds like a dad.)
(Sounds like a mom.)
You say hand-me-down.
I say retro.
Walk.
Bike.
Walk some more.
Recycle.
(See what I did there,
bike—recycle?)
Your name in Sharpie
on a good water bottle.
Backpack. New habits.
No thanks, don’t need a bag.
What else.
Oh yeah.
Tell ten friends
who...
More Poems about Nature
Another Antipastoral
I want to put down what the mountain has awakened.
My mouthful of grass.
My curious tale. I want to stand still but find myself moved patch by patch.
There's a bleat in my throat. Words fail me here. Can you understand? I...
Whenever you see a tree
Think
how many long years
this tree waited as a seed
for an animal or bird or wind or rain
to maybe carry it to maybe the right spot
where again it waited months for seasons to change
until time and temperature were fine enough to...
More Poems about Relationships
Grain Memory
A wishbone branch falls
from my Grandma Thelma’s oak
for me.
What do you know about magic? e1 asks.
E bends e old body down, turns
the wishbone branch into
a cross, places it around my neck.
I am strapped at the Black River’s right shoulder,
remembering my...
Mi Casa
When I was a boy
I was either a child eating bugs
or a child being eaten by bugs, but
now that I am older am I a man
who devours the world or am I a man
being devoured by the world?
Someone once told...