Afterfeast

In Hiton’s cerebral debut, history intersects with the present through a legacy of tragedy and longing. The Holocaust figures prominently; in “Dream of My Father’s Shiva, Auschwitz, 1942,” Hiton dreams she is searching for a body in a crematorium. Greece is conjured vividly in lines like “The moon/ dusting its skin// a veil upon the Aegean,” and “Away from the ruins, more ruins.” She writes of visiting a lover’s ancestral home in Thessaloniki, once again imagining a Holocaust scenario: “You would hide/ me, you would hide me,/ you would hide me,/ if we were in a different time.” Elsewhere, Hiton offers unique expressions of love and desire—“I reach my hand/ Into your mouth, down through your chest. I turn your heart over.” She poses philosophical questions about the significance of daily life given the weight of history: “Wanting to be extraordinary we made ritual out of our tiny lives./ I’ll tighten the screwtop on the bottle of balsamic.” Hiton’s language is predominantly spare and abstract, making the occasional metaphorical conceit strike all the more intensely. This penetrating collection propels the reader forward by the force of Hiton’s intellectual daring. (Oct)