Two Poems by Claudia Wilson
Associate poetry editor Nicolette Visciano on today’s poems: Claudia Wilson’s poetry has the subversive power of a double-edged sword, as childhood innocence battles the realities of adulthood. The duo of “Close your eyes because your body wants to speak.” and “Open your eyes because your body wants to speak to you.” are two sides of the same coin that has miraculously landed on its side in the toss-up for survival of a little girl under the scrutiny of those who watch, whether it be the sky or onlookers. A dress can be torn to shreds and it can fly. Dogs can turn to dragons and nerves can turn to confetti. A little girl, with closed eyes and open eyes, can see more than a sky or an onlooker ever could. These words are the evidence, an urge, a command. Close your eyes and open your eyes. This body of poetry wants to speak. This body of poetry wants to speak to you.
Close your eyes because your body wants to speak
You have pigtails and barrettes
and a well-oiled scalp that is glowing.
You are in the driveway of your house.
A German shepherd is there too.
His mouth opens like a dragon’s. His tongue looks like a slice of red meat.
He comes towards you.
You take a step back.
His black eyes stare at you: unrequited bliss.
White lace from your dress caresses your shoulder.
He sniffs the air. His wet nose moves.
He comes close to your little body.
He rips your dress to shreds.
A shiver runs up your leg.
You are naked under the blue sky.
Your hands do not know to cover yourself.
The sky watches and sees you.
It sees all little girls.
Open your eyes because your body wants to speak to you
Mom gives you a white dress to wear with ruffles.
She takes slabs of grease and slathers you from head to toe.
You think you must be going somewhere special so you must be covered.
You do go somewhere. Downtown. White people are there with coffees and newspapers.
Mom is going to City Hall to fill out important documents.
Together you stand at a street corner ready to cross.
Your dress flies up!
It flies up so much it could take you with it.
It rebels.
A piece of plastic sashays
in the wind like a feather.
A white man covers his face with a newspaper.
Mom looks nervous and puts her coat around you.
You cross the street. She is pulling your body inside her coat.
People watch.
You are burning with heat inside.
Your nerves could
flutter into the wind like confetti.
What’s a vagina?
You know it’s there. Is it bad because people have turned their faces from you?
Mom says, she’s going to spank you
because you forgot your stockings and underwear.
You hate stockings!
Claudia Wilson is a Poet and CNF writer. They graduated from UMass Amherst with their MFA in Poetry. They are the author of the chapbook, GROWN from Game Over Books Press, 2018. These poems are from their forthcoming book Searching for Afrekete. They live in Western, MA with their cat Pablo, and is an instructor at UMass Amherst.
If you would like to show your appreciation for the writer’s work, you can send them a tip through venmo @Claudia-Wilson-3
