The Slug

Everything you touch you taste. Like moonlight you gloss over garden bricks,   rusty chicken wire, glazing your trail with argent mucilage, wearing   your eyes on slender fingers. I find you grazing in the cat food dish   waving your tender appendages with pleasure,  an alien cow.   Like an army, you  march on your stomach. Cursive, you drag your foot’s font.   When I am salted with remorse, saline sorrow, soul gone leathery   and shriveled, teach me how you cross the jagged world sans helmet, pulling   the self’s nakedness over broken glass, and stay unscathed, how without   haste, secretive, you ride on your own shining, like  Time, from now to now.

Already have an account? Log in

Want to keep reading? Join our community:


Support great writing by becoming a full subscriber to Liberties Journal.

Subscribe Today

Free Preview

Sign up with your email address, and access two free articles per month.

We hope you've enjoyed your free articles!

Become a full subscriber for only $50/year, (33% off cover price).

Thank you for supporting great writing.

Subscribe Today