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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.    

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   Contributor’s notes

   cam·pa·nol·o·gy
   ne·pen·thes
   Snail

   Introductions Reading Loop
   Tracking the Muse

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