They built a brutalist monstrosity
On top of Hilda Doolittle’s house
I don’t know why they did that
Just couldn’t help themselves
We can be careless that way with treasures
Always putting tomorrow
Ahead of yesterday
Today, her house is underneath City Hall but then
Aren’t we all?
What remains of Hilda lays
In an unassuming grave
I must assume
I searched but couldn’t find it among the obelisks
A sign of healthy humility
Don’t you think?
Dear H.D. made it just a short distance up the street
In which she was born
(Via New York, London, Paris, Zurich)
Now her ashes are up on Nisky Hill
Seashells of appreciation placed on her headstone
Or, so, I’m told
In the end, the poet came home
To a place she’d long left behind
Nestled in the soil of memory
Looking down on old familiar views
O little town of Bethlehem.
She could see her house from there
If she weren’t in an urn
And they hadn’t built a brutalist monstrosity on top of it.
Words and images are my own.