← v14n1, Spring 2015
Poetry · 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.