The tarantula dozes in a glass aquarium in a dark and dusty pet-store Maybe she who comes from burrows does not mind the lack of light though surely she’d prefer soft walls around her and freedom to move through them
The man at the cash register sits in his creaking chair man with large belly and sad eyes man who speaks with stops and starts He keeps her beside him She is his He is hers her aggression and stored-up poison his hands her source of water and food
He loves to show her off the fangs the eyes the silk thread winding out taut at his tug the dark spinneret
His awe is childlike She never grows old
So they are contained together day by day shy and sheltered in this place They even smell alike-- scent of accumulation of time of creatures that come and go
Postpartum
The young mother by the cafe window babe in arms brushes her lips over that velvet pulse her newborn’s head then passes the child drooping bundle across the table to her friend Now she can eat
I sit at an interior table my hands free these twenty years
People pass by outside rain blowing chill an African lady in her stiff shiny cloth a trio of students bareheaded backpacked
The mother receives her child again digs in her bag with one hand pulls out a garment slips it over her head arranging it just so to cover herself and her child
The drape hides secret of mouth and nipple of body making milk of body receiving I know the now of it right now the force of that suck the ache of pressure breaking
-- Hilary Sallick is the author of two full-length poetry collections, Love Is A Shore (Lily Poetry Review Books) and Asking the Form (Cervena Barva Press). Her poems can be found in Notre Dame Review, Leon Literary Review, Vita Poetica, Small Orange, Ibbetson Street, Inflectionist Review, and other journals. A teacher with a longtime focus on adult literacy, she serves on the Board of the New England Poetry Club. She lives and works in Somerville, MA.