Romana Iorga

The Snare

A mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing.
—Sylvia Plath, “The Rabbit-Catcher”

Had it been you, all along. Had it
been you. Or my fear of telling the
truth. Of telling the fear. How do I
know. How do I know that distance
was nothing. That everyone felt it.
That distance was nearness, really.
And you so close, barely a wisp
between us. Skin. Nerves. Bone.

You were the quick thing, and I. The
dull, heavy. The sliding shut thing.
The narrowing of breath until it grew
still. The not knowing what to. The
hands, big. The fingers, blunt. What
to do with big, blunt, but squeeze.

The hole left after. Deeper than fear.
A fear with a mouth. A mouth. Not
yours, but. How do I know. How do I
know now. That was you. That was
you in the ring. The big, blunt. And I,
the quick thing.