Clara Collins
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Prey
I thought nothing of the spider
trapped three days beneath my drinking glass,
its slim legs running an endless loop
until two of eight were broken and it was still
and twisted: catching the lip
of my cup when I lifted from above, released
too late. Its shroud of dust, disturbed
slightly by its quiet dying,
perhaps contained my skin––the remains
of my own wickedness. I crushed its head
in a paper napkin, tried to shed
the curl of its protective smallness
and the heat of my own shame, though I couldn’t
believe, completely, in its pain
until that August when a man whose love I wanted
led me to the woods and bent me small
on cracked earth, filled my open mouth. I trusted
him to know my humanness
though his shoving made me choke
and his hand plunged rough
inside the neckline of my shirt to squeeze
the flesh there. Only as I wiped his remains away
with the gritty backside
of my arm, did I feel the absence
in his gaze, understand:
I, too, am only a body squirming.
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Disclosure
A pellet gun paralyzed starlings’
star-shaped bodies, dropped them from the flat gray
sky to quiver softly in the dirt. He said
they were invasive, watched them undulate
against the dimming light in union moon-dance,
reeling like dark reams of paper flung
into the air. The dust he kicked up killing them
disappeared the flashing of their throats.
Stiffening, they might have
looked like thick brown leaves
held in his arms. His boyish voice
was steady as he piled them up, easy
as when he tells me how he shot them––
lying with his head against my abdomen,
his heavy body splitting my legs open,
his weight and warmth as solid as his silence.
I watch the lifting of his breath
and press my palm against
the undulations of his skull, believing
they could reveal some sign of goodness
or regret. All night I sleep curled
against the wall, dream of little bodies
exposed and swirling through the dusky light.
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Wanting to Want
Winglike, it spreads beneath skin,
a hidden sparrow fluttering
at the right touch. Its blood rush
should not leave me ragged,
should not remind of rape.
I am held gently and I imagine
the fan of feathers spreading, the twist
of nerve endings unfurled
in pleasure’s thin filaments. He asks me
what I want, and if my want was winged,
then my pleasing should be easy
when softly he presses me
to the mattress, but when I arch,
I play the wanting. I let hands fall open,
my eyes find the birds that dive and rise
outside my window, learning flight.
If it is a bird between my thighs,
it must be very cold or clipped at the wings,
though I’ve dreamt of my still body
touched, passed between hands
like an object. Desire slips
over, feather-soft, ephemeral
though I want to grip it
by the neck, map the instinct
of its movements before it flits
away. He pushes my body
into sweaty blankets, pins
my arms above my head––
the sparrow in my pubic bone
stirs beneath that touch.
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Clara Collins is a poet and teacher located in Bellingham, Washington. She has an MFA from The University of Oregon and her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Ninth Letter, Ellipsis, Radar Poetry, Lucky Jefferson, Poetry South, and elsewhere. She is currently working on her first collection.