At the Library, A Woman Studies
She tries not to take it as an omen when he asks her
to translate non compos mentis from the book he reads
then stares at her off and
on for the next hour or so. He stares
and sonically man-spreads:
slurps coffee laughs out loud at one sentence
before looking to see if she sees his reaction.
Sighs when she doesn’t give him what he’s looking for.
He fist-pumps the air on the next sentence. Stares.
It’s so good he says. Then stares.
She keeps her head down.
She tries to focus on her writing.
Tries to tune out the ghost-tickle on her neck
and Attenborogh’s voice in her head
likening her to a hunted wildebeest.
She packs up her laptop and he leans forward eagerly
and she stays seated and so does he. And stares.
She tries not to think about statistics or the word yet.
Lyrids; or, Whitman Always Makes Me Want to Fuck in the Forest
Meet beneath the stand of aspen
trees, tremulous and shuddering
where golden light forges gold leaf,
don’t speak. Remark where bark black
eyes glisten and red-winged blackbirds
trill and ring. Roll in the gloaming,
revel in lush and loam. Taste spring.
—
Lianne Collins lives in Idaho with her husband and kiddo. She is a recent graduate of Boise State University where she studied creative writing and was also a reader for The Idaho Review. Currently, she tutors writing at College of Western Idaho. Her work appears in Stonecrop Magazine, The Oakland Review, and The Allegheny Review.
Artwork by: Nishant Aneja
