← v14n1, Spring 2015Poetry · Volume 14, Number 1
Snail
She plucks the one
with the slowest glide,
the endless scrolled home,
and cooks the flesh
until the sky goes slack.
The man is unimpressed.
The meal, a mouthful
at most, cultivates
an emptiness.
Their bodies take
to one another like knife
to apple skin. The nick.
Then the slow spiral,
red and unbroken.
